


The Secrets of Men

by Laura_McEwan



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-20
Updated: 2010-10-20
Packaged: 2017-10-26 01:39:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 27,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/277148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laura_McEwan/pseuds/Laura_McEwan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>WWII made them enemies, can desire win a bigger battle?</p><p>Originally published in Timeless 3.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Secrets of Men

 

 

January, 1945

 _Somewhere over Germany_

 

 

Lieutenant  David Starsky pounded the cockpit dash with his fist. "C'mon, sweetheart! Don't die on me!" He needed to get to the ground to find out the problem before the choice to touch down or crash was taken from him.

The field below him looked good enough—only one house and a barn—hopefully, whoever lived there wouldn't come after him with a gun the second his wheels rolled. He patted his personal weaponry for security and took the plane down.

The ground rose up to meet him with that familiar, thrilling rush that flying and landing gave him, proving his skill. A little flair with the landing to bring in the plane in a circle as was his signature move, and at that moment the engine gave its last gasp.

Starsky squinted through the cockpit window, his hand up to block the glare of the rising sun, piercing through clouds that promised another storm. He thought he'd seen movement near the barn's corner, but no one seemed to be there now. He sighed and made sure his gun was in his hand before sliding the cockpit door open.

His breath froze and hung in the cold air. The chill burned at his nostrils, sharp and harsh.

He slid the door closed to keep the weather out, and with his gun in his left hand, he cautiously made his way toward the buildings, grimacing at the crunching sound of frozen, snow-tipped grass beneath his feet. He stopped to look and listen every few steps for signs of life.

Enemy territory. He was supposed to take pictures of movements and men, stockpiles and bases—not land in a German farmer's field. He'd radioed his base and related the trouble so they would be aware of his general location, but actually coming to get him was another matter entirely, and that was the truth—a truth he'd accepted when he took the mission.

Turning the corner, he saw the barn door standing open, and approached it warily.  Unconsciously, he turned slightly back, as if looking or listening for someone behind him, someone who would have his back, like his friends had done on the streets of New York, now so long ago, but there was nothing but loneliness backing him up.

Taking a breath and holding it, he led with his left hand, gun firm in his grip, his step now silent as he entered the dim space.

Scent struck first, the warm mustiness of a milk cow, horse, and hay. As his eyes adjusted, he glanced around, listening and looking for any sign of human life.

The animals required care, so someone must be about. The cow stood, chewing her cud, and nothing in her demeanor suggested she had been starved or left in need of a milking. The horse snuffled, shifting its feet restlessly.

Behind him the door creaked suddenly and he whirled to face nothing.  Wind, he thought, and took a deep breath to calm his racing heart.

He ventured further into the barn, checking corners and stalls, kicking at piles of hay and behind bales, but found no one. The house, then.

On the porch lay a white bundle, and upon closer inspection it looked to be a body. So, someone was here—or had been. Was this the farmer? His wife? Who had been left behind to bury the dead?

He approached the door, gun still firmly in hand, and tried the knob. It turned easily, almost too quietly. He flattened his back against the wall, and in one fluid motion pushed the door open.

Hearing nothing, he peered around the jamb, and seeing no one, entered the small house.

While all was quiet, the kitchen gave him his first clue—a bucket, milk still pooled at the bottom, and a jug, freshly filled if the small spill near it on the table said anything.  He turned his head and felt unmistakable cold steel against his neck.

The words were in German, but a second jab from the muzzle translated the order clearly. As he put his hands in the air, his weapon was taken from him, his arms drawn down behind himand his jacket removed. Then he felt his wrists tied.

" _Amerikaner_ ," a man's voice said, then repeated it in accented English. "American." Was the man German…or British? Or were there more than one holding him captive?

 

*~*~*

He took a deep breath and tried to calm his racing heart, both excited and terrified by his actions. The wound in his leg throbbed in time with his heartbeat, exacerbating the pain.

He tucked the soldier's gun into his own back waistband, taking the man by the arm and roughly pulling him away from the door. He patted the soldier down from behind before rifling through his jacket's pockets, producing a wallet, a camera lens, and a notebook and pencil.

Setting these items on the writing desk, he forced the man to his knees facing the sofa. He sat on the sofa, the American's gun barrel pressing in his waistband, his own resting in his lap, and opened the wallet.

He sorted through the meager items—a few pieces of money, which he took for himself; and a sepia-toned photograph of a family of four—all dark, the children two boys with curly hair. He suspected one of those boys was the man before him, watching him with dark blue eyes.

Blue eyes. How unusual on such a dark man. Mysterious and beautiful. He grasped the man's chin and examined his face, set still as stone though those deep blue eyes glittered with the vestiges of fear.

Further rummaging revealed identification: David Starsky, it said. He yanked the man's dog tags to read them, smiling coldly when the man grunted but said nothing. The names matched.

Starsky, then. Sounded rather Jewish, he thought. Eastern Europe, perhaps.

 His presumption was proven when a small charm tucked into one corner of the wallet fell into his palm, perhaps meant for a necklace, in the shape of a Star of David.  _Ironic name_ , he thought. He held it up, dangling it before the American's eyes.

 _"Bist du Jude?"_

The man stayed silent, but his chin rose slightly. His steady gaze held...courage, though his face seemed to pale. Determination. Pride. Then he closed his eyes.

He nodded once, thoughtfully, fingering the charm.

He pulled a different photograph from the wallet, tucked well in the back. Two young men, arms around each other's shoulders. One was clearly this David Starsky. The other was definitely not the brother from the other photograph—straight hair, light, perhaps blond. Starsky's face was in profile, gazing at his friend with a deep tenderness and soft, secretive smile.

Such closeness in two men seemed unusual. Through slitted eyes he examined the soldier before him, his gaze roving over the man's healthy, young body. Handsome, Strong. Beautiful.

 

*~*~*

 

 

Starsky felt himself pale when the charm fell, and swallowed, a thick lump of fear stuck in his throat.  He would be turned over to the German SS now, he was sure. Not a mere POW, he thought, but an example, perhaps. American Jew.

He closed his eyes against the intense stare the farmer gave him, those crystal blue eyes keen and calculating, leaving him feeling stripped bare and exposed. The atmosphere tasted sharply of danger and fear, and the sense that this man knew exactly who and what Starsky was. What that innocent-looking picture really was all about.

He concentrated on the wind outside for distraction, but his eyes flew open as his hair was grabbed, yanking his head up and forward.

"Why are you here?"

 _English. He does speak English,_ Starsky thought, and tried to reassess the man he was forced to look at.

"Why are you here?" the man repeated, tugging sharply.

"Lieutenant David M. Starsky, American Army Air Corp."  He rattled off his serial number as taught, and then fell silent.

"Yes, I figured that much already, fool." He insolently waved the wallet in front of Starsky's face. "What is it you are looking for, here with your plane?"

The gun barrel pushed Starsky's chin up, tipping his head back and back until he was looking straight up at the ceiling. He felt a wrist press against his airway.

"Plane…broke…down…" he choked out. The pressure eased, and then was gone. The farmer shoved Starsky's head down against the dirty sofa cushions.

"Broke down, eh? Stay there. If you move, I will kill you."

The front door banged open and Starsky held his position, nose full of old musty sofa and ears straining to hear outside. Far off, he could hear another banging, and recognized the sound of his plane's cockpit door being opened and closed.  Forcefully. Damn.

Moments later, footsteps sounded again on the porch and then the door was shut quietly, unlike the noise Starsky had heard from outside. Slow and uneven steps approached him, bringing with them the cold, fresh scent of snow.

Icy wet fingers curled in his hair, his head yanked back again. "This?"  A large black object was thrust before him, spattered with snowflakes.

Starsky's eyes watered from the stinging pain in his scalp. "My camera."

"You take photographs from your plane with this?"

"Yes. No. Please, let me go and I can tell you a lot easier."

"You'll tell me anyhow," the farmer answered, with another vicious yank that made Starsky think he'd find a chunk of hair missing later.

"My—my own personal camera." Ashamed at the unintended tears running down his face, he winced as his camera bounced on the sofa cushions. A gun barrel rapped his jaw with bruising force.

"Spying on troop movements?" The man's voice shook some, sounding a little  excited and angry. The young man appeared to be a farmer, but spoke like a soldier.

The man delivered one more vicious yank, then let him go with a disgusted mutter, wiping his wet fingers on his trousers. Starsky worked his jaw and turned his neck, alleviating the ache. He jumped when he felt cold hands on his own, behind him.

"I'm going to untie you. But as I have your gun, I would highly suggest that you not try anything too stupid." Starsky nodded his understanding and when his wrists came free, he brought them slowly forward and rubbed them with his hands. The German impatiently hoisted Starsky by one arm to forcefully seat him on a wooden chair. His camera came next, proffered before him casually. "Take a picture."

Starsky blinked.

"Anything but of me. And I will have no guilt over killing you if you try."

"The camera isn't a weapon," Starsky said quietly.

"Prove it."

Starsky rubbed one shaking hand over his face and drew a deep breath. He turned the camera so the lens faced away from him, and focused it on the doorway that led to the next room. He could see the foot of a bed, and he looked down into the viewfinder and snapped a shot.

He wound the film to the next frame. "See? Just a camera."

The farmer watched him through cold, narrowed eyes.  "I will take one of you, then."

Starsky offered the camera. He realized, as the man came towards him, that he was limping, quite severely. He wondered briefly if that was why this young man didn't appear to be part of the German army. He was very blond, representative of Hitler's perfect nation, but that still didn't explain the exacting British English. "Can you tell me your name? After all, you know mine," he said, trying a little grin, hoping he wasn't dooming his camera to destruction under the man's boot heel by being too friendly.

The German re-aimed the one gun he still held in his right hand directly at Starsky's forehead. "You will tell me how to operate it, now."

"Okay." Starsky kept up his friendly tone. Maybe he'd wear this blondie down.  "You'll have to put the gun down. Don't worry. I won't move." He smiled widely, but watched warily as his gun was pushed down into his captor's rear waistband next to his, calculating just what it would take to wrest either one back from him.

The man cradled the camera between his two large palms. "I look through here, yes? And then what?"

"I've already advanced the film to the next open frame, so all you have to do is move the camera to see where you want it, and then press that button."

Starsky noticed that Blondie's hand trembled as he maneuvered the camera and reached for the button. The lens stared at him, and Starsky turned his head slightly in a pose and sat still.

The man jumped when the shutter clicked, as if he'd expected something else to happen. He reached for the lever. "Wind it here?"

Starsky nodded. "Right. You've done this before. See? Just a camera."

"I will take another." He moved to one side, coming around to Starsky's shoulder, nearly at his back. "Look back at me."

Starsky obliged, turning his head to look over his shoulder.

"Don't look at me," Blondie snapped. "Turn your eyes away."

Uncomfortable with the abrupt changes in tone from his captor, he dropped his eyes and watched the darkening light as it waved across the floor, filtered through the thin curtains. The storm was rapidly approaching, he thought. The camera clicked.

"What is this for, here?" the man asked.

Starsky slowly turned around, noting the hole indicated. "That's for the cable that lets me take a picture of myself, if I want, or from a distance. I can push a button on the cable and take the picture that way."

Blondie handed the camera back to Starsky, who held it in his lap. He retrieved one of the photographs he had taken from Starsky's wallet, of the two young men together.  "Did you take this photograph?"

Starsky looked straight at the German. The man seemed more curious than angry—or even disgusted. The sky-blue eyes were filled with pain—loss. Misery and anguish, even. Why?

He shook his head and answered softly. "No."

 

*~*~*

 

He felt odd. The pain in his leg was growing worse for all his standing and walking—during the trek out to the plane, he'd slipped on a patch of icy snow, wrenching the muscle—and the man before him was frustratingly handsome. And American. A Jew.

Starsky represented every person, every man, he was supposed to hate. A conniving devil with blue eyes, finding his way in to capture his very soul.

 _And I thought I wanted to be alone._

He looked back down at the photograph, his heart full with memories of a man he'd wanted, but never even touched, never told, who never knew. Oh, to have had a picture taken like this!

His gaze turned back to his prisoner and in a rush of desire, wondered what it would feel like to touch him, to trail his fingertips across his bare skin, to bury his nose in the dark hair, kiss the full lips…be kissed in return.

Starsky gazed back at him, steadfast, but wary. He was afraid, of course. Smart man. This American had no one to trust in here. Certainly not a German who appeared to be from the opposing side of this damned war. And he was so tired of being on the arse end of it all.

If he were to turn himself over to the American lieutenant, Starsky could kill him immediately and be fully justified in the choice. Or he could shoot to wound and leave him to die. He could hold him in this house and call from his plane for assistance, taking him as a prisoner of war.

But there was something…else…about him. Something more honorable, more sensitive than a man who would do that without thought.

His leg hurt, his head hurt, and his heart hurt. He thought of his family, how much they counted on him, but his weariness and pain and hopelessness had broken him down.

He pointed to himself. "Hutchinson."

Starsky looked at him quizzically.

"My name. Hutchinson."

He handed the photograph back to Starsky, who nodded and accepted it cautiously, dropping his gaze to the image in his hand.  "Who is he?" Hutchinson asked, pulling another chair close, sitting with a wince and a grunt for his wound.

Starsky hesitated, and Hutchinson leaned in to also look at the picture, pulled up short by the guns stashed in his waistband. He pulled them both out, emptied Starsky's of its rounds, and set it on the floor, putting the bullets in his pocket. No point in making it easy for the American. He laid his own in his lap. "Tell me about that photograph. Please."

"Why? Why do you want to know?" Starsky asked, eyeing his gun.  In a show of good faith, Hutch picked it back up and handed it to him.

"I want to know—because I am curious. It is a very beautiful photograph."

Starsky hefted the gun in his hand. Hutchinson waited, holding his breath, hoping Starsky would choose to speak over attempting an attack. Then Starsky laid the gun in his lap, mirroring Hutchinson's choice.

"His name is—was—Tommy. Thomas."

"Was?"

"He died. An illness—consumption. About a year after this photograph. He was my best friend."

"I am sorry."

"For what? You didn't kill him."

"And yet I still am sorry for your loss."

Starsky moved restlessly on his chair. "I don't—look, what do you want from me? I don't understand. You hold me prisoner, take a picture of me, then hand me back my gun without any ammunition while sitting in a chair with yours, chatting away about photography. I'm tired, and I'm hungry, and I gotta use the facilities, to be honest. So please—what is it you want? Or can I go work on my plane so maybe I can get out of here before that fucking storm hits?"

Hutchinson tilted his head to one side, then stood. Strange as it seemed, this American seemed…honest. And…that he would understand. Something like hope wound through him. "Wait here, for just a moment? Please?" he asked, kindly and with a small smile, and although he half-expected the American to dash for the door the moment he turned away, went to the bedroom, dropped his gun on the bed, and dug out his bloodied uniform.

Starsky, surprisingly, hadn't moved at all, although still tense in his chair, but when Hutchinson came back with a bundle of gray fabric in his arms, Starsky blanched.  "Did you kill a soldier?"

"Please," Hutchinson said, one hand outstretched, palm up. "No. These are mine." He set them down on the chair he'd just vacated, and unfolded the trousers. "Here is where I was injured, just yesterday. I know you've seen my limp. And this blood...here..." He stopped, swallowed, drew a breath. "It is Friedrich's blood. My sergeant. He threw himself in front of me..." All at once he felt sick and dizzy, and the room began to spin.

Strong hands took hold of him, moved him across the floor, and next he knew he was sitting on the sofa, trousers still in his fisted grip, the limp, empty legs draped across his lap. Starsky could kill him now, easily, and Hutchinson found he didn't really care. _Oh, just do it. Put us both out of our misery. I have nothing much left to live for anyway._

"Hey. Put your head down." A hand pushed gently against his neck and his face pressed against the bloody fabric. "Don't suffocate yourself." The trousers were shifted, and fresh air cooled his face.

The pressure of the warm hand on his skin made it hard for him to recover easily; a kind touch and compassionate voice so needed and so long missed.  He breathed slowly, focusing on the floor, until he felt able to raise his head. But he mourned the loss when Starsky took his hand away.

"Better now?"

Hutchinson nodded. Starsky went across the room to the kitchen, rooted in a cupboard and retrieved a cup, filled it with water and brought it back. "Drink this."

The cool water tasted divine, sliding down his throat. " _Danke._ "

Starsky took the cup when he finished and drank the rest of it himself. He juggled it from hand to hand for a moment, and then pointed to the uniform on Hutch's lap. "So...are you German? Because you sound like a Brit."

Hutchinson's fingers tightened again on the trousers. "I am both—and neither."

"Yeah?" Starsky dropped the cup on the sofa, pulled up one of the chairs and sat, his knees encasing Hutchinson's.  "Want to explain that?"

His personal space suddenly felt too crowded—hot, he needed air.  Who was the prisoner here now ? Starsky was too close.  Too enticing. Smelled too good. He felt his crotch tighten even in his sick misery.

He stood, remotely aware that by doing so, he placed his private parts at eye level to his tormentor, but Starsky leaned back to allow him room without trying to stop him. Still clutching the trousers, he went to the door, throwing it open.

The wind gusted in, and the skies showed black. Snow shot into the little house, and Hutch fought the door closed again. Leaning his back against it, panting a little, he said, "Sorry to change the subject, but I think we're trapped in here."

Starsky moved to the window. "Will you let me go to my plane?"

Hutchinson looked at him sharply, then laughed. "I won't stop you. I don't care. But do you really think you can fly out of here now?"

"You closed the canopy on my plane—I heard you slam it."

"Yes."

"Did you latch it?"

"I don't know. I don't fly planes. Probably not."

Starsky grabbed his coat. "Look, Hutch. I gotta latch it or the wind will rip through the cockpit and throw her around if it hasn't already. Have you got a flashlight or something?"

Hutchinson hesitated. Prisoner? Unlikely. More that he was Starsky's, now. Allowing him outside could be a mistake. And yet….he had called him 'Hutch', shortening his name like a friend would.

He nodded.  "Yes. In here." Purpose gave him energy, and he limped as quickly as he could to the bedroom, dropping the uniform on the floor and grabbing his flashlight and his own coat. "I'll help."

Starsky watched him with worried eyes, as if unsure of believing in Hutch's help. Hutch took Starsky's arm just above the elbow and steered him out the door.

Together they entered the storm.

 

*~*~*

 

The wind pushed back at them, sending snow beneath their coats and chilling their skin. Starsky followed Hutch as he grasped the rope tied between the house and the barn—just for this purpose, Starsky realized.  Wide open land and wicked storms made for strong winds that blew the snow around so hard it was nearly impossible to see.

His right hand gripping the rope, extremities already numbing from the cold, he put his left hand on Hutch's shoulder, to keep them both moving and to be ready to help catch him if the injured man stumbled. But Hutch made it to the barn door without issue and pulled Starsky in, slamming the door shut behind him, holding Starsky in his arms a moment as they both caught their breath.

Awkwardly, Starsky stepped back and freed himself and they just stood for a minute, stamping their feet and brushing snow off their coats. "I don't think that's going to let up any time soon," Hutch said, gazing up to the ceiling, listening to the roar.

"I still gotta get to my plane," Starsky said, going to the far end of the building to try and look out a grimy window to where his plane presumably sat. "I didn't put the chocks down for the wheels and I’m worried the wind will push her around, but if that canopy isn't latched, then my equipment could get ruined and she won't fly without a lot of fixing."

Hutch rummaged around in an empty stall where he had seen other tools previously. "Here's another rope. We can tie it to the one outside and walk it toward your plane.  We won't get lost in the snow that way."

Starsky nodded. "Good idea. Maybe even tie it around my waist so it doesn't get dropped."

"Mine, too," Hutch agreed, preparing to do just that.

"Hey, you don't gotta go out there. You're already hurt," Starsky protested.

Hutchinson paused. "Will your plane carry more than one person?"

"Yeah . . .why?"

"Maybe I want to fly away with you."

Starsky blinked. "You gotta be kidding me."

"Or I could force you to fly me out. I have the bullets, remember?" Hutch's voice held an edge of sarcasm and his expression had turned hard again.

Starsky glanced down at Hutch's leg, sure that if anything, the man would slow him down, but just then an intense roar of wind rattled the barn. He gestured impatiently for the rope. He had to get to his plane.

Hutch stood up straight and quickly finished tying the rope around his own body. He held out the rest to Starsky. "Here. Tie this on."

Once secured, Starsky followed Hutchinson outside for their second trek. The wind rose around them, blowing snow into their eyes.

Attempting to protect his face from the maelstrom, Hutch tossed the long end over the guideline, missing twice. Starsky shouted in his ear. "Let me try—go stand on the other side and catch."

Unable to move very far apart as they were tied together, they still managed to maneuver to either side of the line, and Starsky gauged the direction of the wind, timing his toss with a gust. Successful, he helped Hutch slipknot it onto the guide rope, and then taking the lead with his end, they followed the side of the barn to the corner before making their way to the plane.

In fits and starts they battled the blasts, edging forward to the dark shadow where the plane stood. Once his hand made contact with his girl, he pressed his cheek against her. "Good girl." He felt along her flank until he reached the door. He stuck out his hand and felt for the handle. The door moved easily in his grasp.

"She's not latched!" he shouted behind him, "but she _is_ closed! Hang on while I do it!" He felt two small tugs on the rope and understood that Hutch had heard him.

First he slid the cockpit door open enough to reach inside and grab and the chocks for the wheels and his leather bag that held personal items and his other camera gear. Clearly, Hutch had gone through it and left it open. Pushing aside a hot flame of anger, he wrestled the snap closed and dropped it all to the ground.

The plane bucked beneath him like an unbroken horse when he opened the door widely to find the loose end of the buckle. His arm caught when a gust of wind whooshed inside the cockpit. He felt himself being lifted off the ground and realized he wasn't going to be able to slide the window closed again and more likely was going to be thrown to the hard ground.

As he thought about climbing all the way in and riding out the storm from inside, a weight pressed him against the plane's body and Hutch's arm slid up his own. Together they pulled. The wind changed direction just enough and the plane stopped trying to rise like a helium balloon. Starsky's feet hit the ground with a thud. Starsky held on to the handle while Hutch's body held him against the plane's. He fought for the buckle, to latch the two ends together but the snow in his eyes and his cold, stiff fingers made the small motions difficult.

Hutch's hand came down around one of his, maneuvering the female end to the one Starsky held. It took three tries, but finally the buckle slid together and Starsky pulled the end of the strap to tighten it down.

His arms shaking with effort, he nudged Hutch behind him with his ass, signaling he was ready to move away, but another gust of wind blew up under the wings and knocked Starsky over.

Starsky winced when he felt his boot heel bounce off Hutch's leg as they both landed with a thud, knowing without even looking that he had hit Hutch's wound. He rolled off, the rope twisting around him, to see Hutch writhing on the ground, his hand reaching for his leg.

He leaned closer to Hutch's face. "Can you walk?" he called. Hutch shook his head, then nodded, then pointed back to the barn.

"Hold on, pal!" Starsky shouted. "Gotta block the wheels!" He did it quickly, securing the plane in place as best he could. Then he snagged his bag out of a snowdrift and hoisted Hutch up by his armpits, pulling one arm around his neck. He handed Hutch his bag and together they followed the rope back to the barn at a severely hobbled pace, balance constantly tested by the wind, until they fell through the doorway and pushed the door closed behind them. This time Starsky held Hutch in his arms, both of them just breathing, until equilibrium was restored.

The cow lowed, and Hutch's head swung toward her from where he had rested it against the door.

"She needs milking," he said, dropping Starsky's bag, gently pushing Starsky back and fumbling with the rope around his waist. "Best do it now."

"Let me," Starsky said, blowing on his fingers. "You need to rest that leg. Did I hurt you bad?  I'm really sorry."

Hutch stood up straight, wincing. "Not too bad, but yes, it hurts. I'll live, unfortunately. Besides, do you even know how to milk a cow?"

It sounded like an odd comment, but Starsky let it go for the moment. "No. But you could tell me how, maybe?"

Hutch smiled indulgently. "No. Has to be taught. I can rest my leg while I milk. Help me over there."

 

*~*~*

 

For the second time in less than half an hour, Starsky submitted to Hutch's hands over his, this time warm and strong, guiding and helping. Inside, out of the storm, he allowed himself to notice the length of the slender fingers, how white the nail beds were, how strong and large the palms were. A thread of loneliness crept through him, around his heart and squeezing. Hutch's closeness brought back memories of Tommy, and he marveled at that, for the two resembled each other in no way beyond being men. And Tommy had died so long ago.

And then he made himself remember just who this man was. A German soldier, a man who belonged to a movement that had killed countless Jews. His family by faith. And here he was, acting like a friend, feeling like a new lover. _No._

He shook his head sharply and Hutch drew back. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah. Fine. Sorry. Uh…is she empty yet?"

Hutch laughed, a deep, throaty velvety sound. His chest vibrated against Starsky's back, and Starsky's stomach jumped.

"Yes, she's about 'empty.'" Hutch chuckled. "Move over and I'll finish the stripping."

Starsky had been kneeling beside the cow, with Hutch's arms around him to guide his hands. Standing, he came around behind the man, oddly content for the moment to simply watch the big hands draw the last streams of white liquid with a gentle but strong, firm, pumping grip.

Starsky closed his eyes and tried to imagine those hands killing someone. He found it difficult. His imagination took him in another direction, and he was surprised at how easily he could imagine those hands on his own body, milking his—

"Here—take the bucket, please?" His attention quickly veered from his twitching cock, and as he took the heavy pail he nearly sloshed some milk out on the floor.

"Won't the wind blow some of this out when we go back out? And how am I going to help you in?"

Hutch stood and stretched, then bent his leg carefully. "Well, we'll just have to do our best."

At Hutch's direction, Starsky fed the animals, and then helped Hutch pull his coat back on, ignoring the German insignia.

Hutch's leg had stiffened with sitting, hobbling him more than before. Once they'd managed to get back outside and close the barn door behind them, Starsky carried the milk pail in his right hand and wrapped his left arm around Hutch. Hutch held the guide rope with his left hand and wrapped his right arm around Starsky's neck, Starsky's bag dangling from his fingers.

The wind blew fiercely, sending shards of what felt like ice into their faces. Starsky turned his face toward Hutch and Hutch did the same, offering each other as much shelter from the driving wind as they could, using Starsky's bag as a buffer, until they finally reached the front of the house.

The door crashed open and Starsky set the pail down and turned to push the door closed before more snow and ice followed them in. 

Hutch picked up the milk and grunted.  "Still half of it in here, and nearly frozen."

Starsky bristled at what he thought was criticism. "Sorry. I tried."

Hutch eyed him, a small grin playing over his lips. "No, I mean it. That wind is incredibly strong. There's plenty. Besides, we'll have to go do that dance again in the morning."

Starsky attempted a joke. "Next time, I lead."

Hutch chuckled and set the pail on the table, rubbing his hands together as if to warm them. Starsky brushed the snow from his bag and hair as he watched Hutch limp across the small kitchen.

"How's that leg?"

"It'll do." But Hutch's expression had turned grim, and Starsky thought perhaps the man's hands were shaking. But what he noticed next, as Hutch took off his coat, was the blood.

He crossed the room in two steps, shedding his own coat. "Sit down. You're bleeding again."

Hutch's hand darted down and came back up with his fingertips tinged with red. "Damn."

Starsky pulled a chair to Hutch and sat him down in it. "Let me see." Hutch tried to push him away, bending over his leg himself. "Hey! I’m just trying to help here!"

"I can do it," Hutch said through gritted teeth.

"Sure you can. But I’m not  the one hurting, and my hands aren’t shaking! Now sit there and shut up."

Hutch sighed in eye-rolling disgust and sat back, arms crossed. "Fine, Dr. Starsky. Bandages are in the kitchen cupboard."

Starsky rolled up the pants' leg, whistling softly at the blood flowing from beneath the knotted bandage. "Okay. Hutch, how about we take you to the bedroom and let you lie down while I work on this?  You know you got dizzy before and you're tired now."

Briefly, a ghost of an expression, something besides pain, crossed Hutch's face, as Starsky looked up at him. "Yes," Hutch finally answered, his voice very quiet. "I think that may be best."

Employing the same synchronized teamwork as when they'd battled the snow and wind outside, Starsky and Hutch wound their arms around each other and Starsky half-carried Hutch to the bedroom. Starsky helped him sit without falling. "Okay, now go ahead and lie down."  He worked Hutch's boots, carefully removing each so as to not jostle or pull harder than necessary, but he didn't miss Hutch squeezing his eyes shut when the injured leg was moved. His hands hovered over Hutch's waistband and he felt himself flushing. "Uh...do you want to…" Hutch's fingers fumbled briefly with the button before his hands slipped away to lie still on the mattress.

Starsky darted a look at his companion—the pale face had gone completely white and his eyes had closed. "Hutch?"

No reaction. He reached for the man's wrist, looking for a pulse, and found one—rapid, but steady.

He unbuttoned Hutch's trousers and with quiet care, slid them down the long legs, pausing to carefully peel the sticky fabric from where drying blood had adhered it to Hutch's skin.

Getting a good look at the iodine-colored, bloody gash, he felt a moment's appreciation at the fact that Hutch had passed out. He dashed back to the kitchen and collected water, clean cloths, and the bandages and iodine from the cupboard. Carefully sliding one cloth between Hutch's leg and the bed, he then spent a few moments preparing the next bandage before attempting to remove the old one, working at the knot with steady fingers.

The old bandage did stick and Hutch twitched and moaned a little when Starsky had to pull it away, but he didn't wake. Applying some water helped, and finally Starsky was able to get a good look at the wound.

A gash, maybe two inches long. He washed it carefully, looking for any debris or dirt, but the cut looked clean and not too deep, but a good bruise was forming near it. He re-applied the iodine, eliciting another moan from Hutch, and rewrapped the leg carefully. He had learned enough in his first aid training to note that there didn't seem to be any infection—at least so far—but that the wound would need some careful attention for a few days.

As he cleaned up after himself, he paused to take a good look at the unconscious man on the bed. Tall and lean, with the classic blond looks that Hitler would be proud to call Aryan, strong. And right now, quite vulnerable, his forehead creased and mouth pinched.

Starsky knew that an infantryman would take this man prisoner, turning him over to his commanding officer as soon as he could. But Starsky had sensed something different—something that said Hutch would rather be anywhere but here fighting this war. Growing affection compelled him to place a gentle hand on Hutch's forehead and the pain-filled frown seemed to ease. Starsky carefully pulled the quilt over Hutch and tucked him in.

Setting aside the first aid gear, he sorted through the contents of the bedroom closet, pulling out the rest of Hutch's uniform and examining it. Insignia indicated Hutch was a lieutenant; further inspection revealed him to be one Kenneth Hutchinson. _Well, Kenny boy, what do we do now?_

He put the wallet on the bedside table next to the bowl of water and cloths, and returned the rest of the medical materials to the kitchen cupboard before perusing the cupboards for food. Hutch was going to need something simple and hearty. A few eggs in a basket made him think there must be chickens about. He also thought about how he would milk the cow the next day, for he didn't think Hutch would be able to manage facing that trip again.

Starsky stoked the fire in the little stove, and  put together a small stew  that eventually bubbled and steamed in its pot. Just as the aroma reached his nose, he heard a voice from the bedroom calling out, competing with the wind.

 _"Aufhören! Ich kann nicht mehr!"_

Starsky came quickly to the doorway. Hutch tossed his head, clearly dreaming.

 _"Friedrich! Hilf mir!"_

Starsky cautiously sat on the edge of the bed, squeezing Hutch's arm. He wet a cloth and wrung it out, patting Hutch's sweating face with it. "Hey, Hutch. It's okay. Wake up."

Hutch stilled, then opened his eyes. Starsky squeezed Hutch's shoulder at the fear he saw there. "It's all right. I'm here."

 _"Wo sind wir?"_ Hutch blinked slowly, as if still mostly asleep, then re-asked his question. "Where are we?"

"In the bedroom. Do you remember getting in here? You passed out while I changed the bandage on your leg. How're you feelin'?"

Hutch's gaze turned inward, as if searching within. Then his face cleared and he looked back at Starsky. "I'm all right now, I think." He swallowed and licked his lips.

"You want some water?"

Hutch nodded.

Starsky patted his arm and left, stirring the stew as he passed the stove.  He marveled at how dark it was outside while he poured the water. The storm had set in fully.

Hutch had pulled himself up to sit against an old brass headboard that needed polishing and was tugging at the quilt. Starsky imagined the farm's owner as a young man with his new bride and their new bed with the patchwork quilt, now both worn with age.  The romance of it made him smile.

Looking as haggard and worn as the bed, Hutch rubbed a hand over his face, and accepted the cup of water. " _Danke._ " He sniffed at the air. "What's so funny that you're smiling? And do I smell food? Did you cook something?"

Starsky hid his grin and lit the lamp he'd grabbed on his way back. "Yep, some stew. Hope it tastes good. I think it's about ready; I'll bring you some."

He returned a few moments later with two steaming bowls and two hunks of the bread from the cupboard. After handing Hutch his food, he settled himself on the edge of the bed.

"Why are you doing this?"

Starsky looked up from his bowl, spoon halfway to his mouth. "What?"

"Taking care of me."

Starsky took his bite and thought about that a moment, remembering how he'd basically set up housekeeping as Hutch slept, how he'd felt the German wasn't quite the evil being that his training insisted he was. He hedged. "I dunno. Seemed like a good idea at the time. You were hurt, needed help."

"But I'm supposed to be your enemy." Hutch's hand wavered and his bowl tipped dangerously. "You could have me as a prisoner now. Or maybe I already am?"

Starsky blinked. "Huh. Yeah, you could be." He patted Hutch's good leg. "But you're not. You helped me with my plane, we took care of the animals, I took care of your leg. And you were fine with things this way until you started thinking about it too much." He winked. "You let me bring you in here and fix your bandage. Why did you do that?"

"I think—I think I felt like—I could—trust you. I fainted, didn't I?" Starsky nodded. "I thought so. But you were here and I could—let go. Do you understand?"

"I do," Starsky replied, warm inside, his affection growing. He gestured at the bowl in Hutch's hand. "Eat."

Hutch sighed. "This war . . ." Wearily he set his bowl on the bedside table, next to his small wallet. He picked it up, hefting it slightly. "Would you believe me if I said I don't believe in it? In what I'm supposed to be fighting for?"

Starsky held Hutch's sad, tired gaze. "Yes. I'm curious to know why, though." He waited patiently for Hutch to continue, emptying his own bowl of stew.

After a couple of silent minutes, where Starsky finished his food and Hutch poked at his, Hutch spoke. "Tell me—what shall I call you?"

"Call me?"

"Yes. You call me Hutch."

Starsky set his empty bowl beside Hutch's. "Do you want me to call you something else?"

Hutch shook his head. "No. I rather like it. It's not lieutenant, or Nazi, or commander." He bit his lip. "Please call me Hutch."

Starsky watched Hutch carefully. He seemed sad, lost, alone. Wanting a friend. "Okay. My name is David Starsky. My friends call me Dave. Are we friends, now?" He pointed a finger back and forth between them.

Hutch gave him half a smile. "I'm not sure yet. Is that okay? Starsky—is that Polish?"

"Something like that."

"Makes me think of the stars in the sky," Hutch said, a little dreamily, and Starsky wondered if the man was about to fall asleep again.

"Then call me Starsky. I don't mind."

Hutch raised the wallet as if in salute. "I think you must already know my full name. And I am, effectively, your prisoner."

"Do you want to be my prisoner?" He surprised himself by asking the question at all.

An intense blue gaze, dark in the shadows, focused on him. "Maybe." He sounded a little wistful.

Starsky moved further onto the bed, and although Hutch parted his legs to allow space for Starsky to sit at the foot of the mattress, he no longer looked at Starsky, nor offered any further explanation of his answer. Instead, he turned his wallet over and over in his hands. Eventually, Hutch's eyes drifted closed while Starsky watched over his de-facto patient and listened to the wind howl around the little house, wondering if they'd both gone through Alice's looking glass.

"Maybe we should just be us," Starsky whispered.

Hutch didn't answer.

 

*~*~*

 

He woke, uncomfortably slouched against the headboard. Carefully moving his body and cataloguing every twinge, he slid down to lay his head on the thin pillow, pulling the quilt up over his shoulders. His legs felt chilly and he rubbed one hand down his lame one until he encountered the bandage. The wound felt sore and still throbbed, but not with the terrible pain that had taken him unconscious earlier. The bandage felt dry and that seemed good. Starsky had done a good job patching him up.

The leftover scent of the stew still floated in the air, but the bowls were gone. The window, though covered, made it plain it was dark outside, but he had no real sense of the time.

The lamp threw a thin light onto the floor and he considered getting out of bed, but moving his legs warmed the mattress and he was reluctant to actually leave. A sense of lethargy weighed him down—kept him still, hiding beneath a strange quilt in a dead man's house, an unresisting prisoner to an American man who didn't seem to consider him a prisoner.

He felt free. Free from having to think, free from having to decide what happened next. Relieved of command, and he gave it up willingly. Let Starsky take him prisoner, then, however he saw fit. He could kill Hutch in his sleep. Torture him, leaving him to die in the cold. He deserved it for his sins, the sins of his people against Starsky's, the sins of his fellow soldiers, his _Führer._

His sister's face drifted into his mind. Such a child still in a young woman's body; his mother looking for a suitable husband for her once the war was over and men were home; a good German boy, even as she actively looked for a wife for her Kenneth _._ Often, her letters from the safety of their home in Alsfeld had included news of Liesel, the girl next door, blonde and pretty. He wouldn't lie that a few kisses had been given in their younger days, curious and quick. She was soft, and smelled nice, but he couldn’t return her crushing ardor, and tried not to feel guilty when she smiled at him hopefully every time he walked by. His mother, he knew, was working her maternal magic on Liesel's mother, and he was fairly sure a match had been arranged with neither his knowledge nor consent.

He'd always known that his desires lay with the boys. He'd thought he could push the dangerous feelings down and away, eventually marry Liesel or someone else, have a family and fool everyone, including himself.  For now, though, he lived a lonely existence, a painful one, as his friends would talk about girls and women, making filthy references to the female anatomy, bragging of touching or fucking, and all the while, Kenneth listened while picturing one of those very friends in his bed, an engaged recipient of Kenneth's carnal desires. 

But he never said a word or acted on a single impulse. He played the game he hadn't wished to play, and did it well enough that no one suspected, and the war—well, the war made for a convenient excuse not to worry about dallying with anyone.

Leading troops afforded him private accommodations—often he had bunked with his men, but there were times when their nearness—the scent of them, male musk and sweat—would send dizzying shockwaves straight to his groin. Then he would claim his privacy and take himself in hand, imagining any one of a number of men as he rubbed himself to release.

And then there was Friedrich.

His hand drifted down to his cock, already pushing itself up against his underdrawers at the first remembered vision of his face.

"You awake?"

Starsky's voice startled him badly, and he gasped and coughed.

"Hey, hey, you okay? Need a drink?"

Hutch waved him away. "I'll be all right. I just—" He stopped talking, clearing his throat. He closed his eyes. Starsky was entirely too close for comfort at the moment. "Yes, actually, some water would—" he coughed again "—help."

Starsky hurried away and Hutch took a deep breath. Too close, too close…

And then suddenly he wanted that closeness back. Needed it, needed to feel human warmth, a body, a man, a friend…someone to take his side. Be at his side.

"Here." A cup was pressed into his hand and he drank from it, hand shaking.

"Thank you," he murmured, handing the cup back. "Any idea what time it is?"

"Late," Starsky said. "Nearly midnight now."

Hutch glanced around the room. "Uh…I need to…outhouse, huh?"

Starsky grinned. "Can't really go outside. But there's a whatchacallit—chamberpot—over here. I used it earlier." He gestured to the far corner. "Want it?"

Hutch felt the blush creep up his face and hoped Starsky couldn't see that in the low light. "Yes, please."

After bringing it over and leaving again to allow Hutch some privacy, Starsky returned to drop to one knee at the side of the bed and examine Hutch's leg.

"Feeling sore still?"

"Yeah, a little." He gasped, though, when Starsky prodded around the bandage.

Starsky put a hand to Hutch's forehead and he felt another blush coming on. "You're a little warm. Not much, though. Bandage still looks good. Bruise is turning green and purple. I'll check it again in the morning."

Hutch nodded and reached to pull up the quilt.

Starsky took the edge of the blanket and pulled it up over Hutch's shoulders for him. "You want to talk about it?"

"Talk about what?"

"Whatever it is that's eatin' at ya. What happened that brought you to this house? You didn't get very far with your story earlier—about your uniform."

"Oh." He pushed himself back up to a sitting position, worrying the frayed edge of the quilt with his fingers. "Well…I—I'm not sure where to start."

"Who's Friedrich?"

Hutch's fingers gripped convulsively on the blanket. "Friedrich is…was…my sergeant. My assistant. He had become…my friend. My only one." His breath felt sharp in his lungs and his eyes burned.

"What happened to him?"

"What do you think happened to him?" Hutch snapped. "He was killed. Took a shot coming for me. I should be…dead…and he…he…" His voice failed him and he turned his face away from Starsky's compassionate gaze, his jaw clenching.

"He saved your life."

Hutch nodded stiffly. "The others…all lost. The field afterward, it was…a nightmare. Bodies, arms, legs…steaming in the cold." He felt his stomach lurch and swallowed hard. Vaguely, he became aware of Starsky's hand on his shoulder. "I failed them. Failed them all."

"It's okay, Hutch."

Hutch squeezed his eyes shut, and turned his face back toward Starsky. "No, it's not. Never will be. I drove  a shot up truck here and found…solitude, at least. Just the ghosts of my men to haunt me. I should have died with them."

"I think I understand why you feel that way. But I'm kinda glad you didn't."

The room fell quiet. Hutch's jaw ached from preventing the tears that lurked dangerously close. The shame he felt was already too great to add to it by crying like a child. But he wanted to. Oh, he wanted to.  And this damned American was being far too kind.

Hutch sighed, opening his eyes. Starsky sat with his head bowed, his hand having dropped from Hutch's shoulder to his lap.  He glanced at the empty left side of the bed. "You should get some sleep. We've got a cow to milk in the morning, you know."

That made Starsky smile a little. "Oh…yeah, I figured I'd sleep on the sofa…think there's another blanket in the closet?"

"No."

"Oh. Well, um…."

Hutch took a breath, and blew it out slowly. "No, don't sleep on the sofa. I-I—don't want to be alone." He felt that shame again in saying it. Some soldier. Afraid to be alone? But it was the truth.

Starsky hesitated, as Hutch expected he would. He reached out and touched Starsky's hand.

"Look, it's cold…I'm cold. Two of us in the bed keeps us warmer. Do you disagree?"

Starsky looked around the room to the window, seeming to listen to the wind whipping outside it. "No, I don't disagree. It's just—"

"I won't harm you. You are not my prisoner, and you said I was not yours."

"Right, but—"

"Please. You deserve to rest in a bed tonight. You've more than earned it."

A strange expression crossed Starsky's face; brief, and in shadow, but then Hutch saw acquiescence in the slump of Starsky's body before he said a word. "All right. If you're sure."

Hutch slid down under the quilt and listened as Starsky put things away, opened and closed the stove, checked the latch on the front door.  A few minutes later, the man came back and hesitantly sat on the empty side of the bed. "You sure you're sure?"

"Yes. Get some sleep."

Starsky shucked his trousers and took off his shirt. Stripped down to just his undershirt and shorts, he rolled himself under the quilt and tried to plump the pitifully thin pillow. "G'night, Hutch. Let me know if you need anything, okay?"

Hutch blew out the lamp. "Good night, Starsky."

 

*~*~*

 

Sometime in the night, the wind stopped. Starsky woke, disoriented at first, trying to decide what had awakened him and feeling surprised at how loud the silence felt.

He could feel Hutch beside him, warm and quiet. The darkness was absolute; Starsky couldn't see his hand before his face, but he still reached out to check if Hutch's slight fever had grown at all.

His hand encountered soft hair; his memory supplied the color. Blond, so very blond as to be nearly white. As his fingers slid down, the curling ends wrapped around the tips and Starsky felt himself smile. Determining that Hutch slept on his back, he tried to check his forehead for fever and bumped into Hutch's right arm, flung over his eyes.

Starsky chuckled to himself; no light, yet Hutch still covered his eyes as if the brightest sunshine were interrupting his sleep. Those eyes, blue as summers back home.

A wave of affection swept him again and he didn't question it. Here was a man, just a man, feeling the pain of loss as keenly as any other, including himself. Guilt over surviving, compassion for his men.

Hutch felt warm, but only from sleep, not fever. His quiet slumber relaxed Starsky and he settled comfortably onto his side, facing the German. He thought briefly of what Hutch had told him about his company, how that battle had ended, and he rested his hand on Hutch's left arm. The contact with life felt reassuring, and with Tommy on his mind, he slipped back into sleep.

 

*~*~*

 

Hutch woke abruptly, an echoed shout of Friedrich's name reverberating through his mind. He wondered if he'd called out loud; he suspected that Starsky had heard him the last time, when he'd awakened Hutch from just such a nightmare.

His heart pounded in his chest, although he remembered nothing from his dream except his friend disappearing behind a red explosion.

The darkness in their room was complete, but he felt Starsky's hand wrapped loosely around his arm.

"Starsky?" he whispered, but only heard the man's even, gentle breathing.  He realized the storm had stopped; the silence surrounding them was as complete as the darkness.

They might as well be nowhere at all.

The thought of that seemed somehow comforting—no war, no world, no one to judge him, no one to break his heart, no one to lose….

Hutch closed his eyes, the friendly hand on his arm calming him. He hadn't been touched in far too long, and he'd never acted on wanting another man. Too dangerous, too frightening, and so all he had ever really had was Friedrich casually touching him, more friend than subordinate, just an outgoing man who needed contact to be happy, not knowing how much he had both thrilled and pained Hutch when he did so.

Had it only been two days since Friedrich had given his life for his commander? It seemed longer, but no…Starsky had arrived the next morning and here they were, sleeping in the same bed this night.

He placed his own hand over the American's. The thumb twitched and brushed against Hutch's, and the tightening knot of disloyalty to Friedrich that had been coiling in his gut loosened. The tears he had fought so hard to hold back earlier flowed easier in the darkness, rolling into a wave of mourning for someone he'd never really had, yet still had lost, safe in the knowledge that Starsky slept on and would not witness his weakness.

The released anguish wearied him. He kept his hand on Starsky's and slowed his breathing, matching his bedmate's, allowing peace to steal over him. Thus armored against the nightmares, he slipped back into sleep.

And then it was morning.

 

*~*~*

 

 

Starsky woke up alone.

The sheets were still warm where Hutch had been, and he smoothed his hand across the indentation left behind. He could still smell him, a soft, sleepy scent.

Outside seemed bright; he sat up in bed and considered the light streaming in. Snow seemed likely to be high on the ground.

He worried about Hutch's leg, and somewhat reluctantly pulled himself from his own cozy warm spot. Chamber pot used, trousers on and feeling warmer overall, he poked his head around the doorway and found Hutch at the washbowl, staring at himself in a small scrap of mirror hanging on the kitchen wall.

Starsky walked up behind him, close enough that he could see both their faces in the dirty mirror. Hutch's tired eyes shifted to meet Starsky's briefly, then dropped as he bent to wash his face.

"How's the leg?"

Hutch tossed more water onto his face and let it drip into the pan. "Better. Thanks." Starsky could see that his eyes seemed a little red and puffy, but said nothing.

"You finished?"

"Yes." Hutch stepped aside, taking the towel, and Starsky took his place for his own ablutions.

"Cow now?"  Hutch asked.

Starsky grinned, then shrugged. "I guess—need to do it, huh?" He looked up into the mirror to see Hutch behind him this time, with a strange, small smile on his face.

"No farm boy, are you?"

"Nope. City born and raised." He shook his wet hands over the bowl.

Hutch nodded and handed Starsky the towel. "Come on. Let's get our milk for the day."

 

*~*~*

 

They stood, shoulder to shoulder in the doorway, staring at the bright scene laid out before them, a textured landscape of white on white.

The snow had piled incredibly high. Three feet deep and dry and powdery, it covered every open surface in unrelenting uniformity. Crisp cold air flowed past them into the house and as one they stepped out and closed the door behind them.

The fields lay dormant beneath their winter blanket, and the random few nearby trees stood statuesque, wrapped in icy fur coats.

Between the house and the barn, the overhead rope balanced a small pile along its top edge, and was now only a couple of feet from the surface of the snow.

"Wow," breathed Starsky.

"Indeed," Hutch whispered, before muttering, " _Verdammt_. Did you see a shovel around here yesterday? That hopefully wasn't in the stall with the other tools in the barn?"

They could see that the barn door was blocked. Starsky guessed that the window at the far end of the building was probably just above it. A short hunt located a small garden tool shed around the side porch, which contained, among other things, one spade.

Hutch put out his hand before Starsky dug in. "Wait. It's so beautiful. It's—like a canvas waiting for the paintbrush."

The morning's scenery did have that expectant quality to it—clean and clear and quiet, waiting for the moment when someone or something would add some color or noise and break the silent spell.

Starsky, waiting for Hutch's go-ahead to shovel, carefully examined the man's expression. He seemed nearly happy, wistful, wishful…like a little boy, staring in wonder at the change nature had made overnight. His eyes glowed bright with a sweet vulnerability, and Starsky felt something else give way inside him, like a knotted muscle finally releasing—and a need to care for this lost, lonely man took its place, a need far greater than just tending to his wound. He warned his heart against the feelings, but he knew that battle was going to be lost.

"Does it snow like this a lot?" he ventured, and Hutch turned an open, childlike face to him.

"Not to my recollection. Not this much, anyway. Beautiful, isn't it?"

"Yeah, it is," Starsky answered, so softly Hutch didn't seem to hear him as he returned his gaze to the landscape, missing the fact that Starsky looked only at him.

 

*~*~*

  
            Hutch refused to let Starsky do all the work, regardless of his leg. Starsky still did the majority of the digging, but it took over an hour and in that time, Hutch's expression changed from a charmed boyishness to old man's lines of pain. Starsky got Hutch seated on the milk stool, resting against the bulky warmth of Bessie, as Starsky called her, while he went back for pail.

The path they'd dug was high on both sides as they'd thrown the snow. The door to the barn swung in, thankfully, and they had both gratefully stumbled through, their sweat nearly freezing on their skin.

Starsky paused beside the frozen body of the farmer on the porch, wondering who he'd been and what he'd think of these two men having taken over his home, and wondered how they'd bury him, whom to contact, who should know.

But he did know he'd like it if that body went somewhere else.

He shuddered, grabbed the pail, and headed back.

Hutch still leaned against Bessie, but his breathing had evened out and his eyes opened as Starsky closed the barn door.

"You doin' all right?" Starsky put one hand on Hutch's shoulder as he set the pail under Bessie's teats.

"Yes."

"How's the leg?"

Hutch grimaced. "It's been better."

Starsky knelt on the floor and worked Hutch's trouser leg up enough so that he could see the wound. Red blood had seeped through the bandage again, but not very much. "It's not bad from this angle. You're back in bed when we're done here, though."

Hutch puffed out a short, tired laugh. "Sounds wonderful. Let's get it done."

As he pulled the teats and filled the pail and air with the warm, creamy scent of fresh milk, Starsky pulled some hay from the storage area and put it in Bessie's manger, scratching tentatively at her forehead. "Good girl."  He moved on to feed the horse, and then took the milk pail from Hutch.

"We have to muck out their stalls," Hutch reminded him, and Starsky made a face.

"Terrific."

Hutch simply grinned, like a brother or a friend, and Starsky found himself grinning back. He liked this man. Really liked him; Hutch seemed to be filling the space that Tommy had left, deep inside.

As he took up the pitchfork and began to work, he thought about the strangeness of this reality. If anyone had ever told him that he'd be becoming friends with a German soldier while in Germany, working with him, caring for his injuries, and keeping a dead man's farm with him, he would have done more than just laugh. He would have jokingly added, "Yeah, and I bet I'd fall in love with him, too!"

He shook his head sharply. Where had that come from?  He glanced over at Hutch only to find the man leaning on Bessie, watching him from across her back. His gaze felt gentle, the blue glow calming, the small smile almost affectionate. A friend.

And Starsky smiled back.

 

*~*~*

 

“You sit down. I’ll find us some food.” Starsky brushed the snow off his jacket and stomped his feet on the porch's floorboards, loosening the caked ice in the tread. He bent to brush Hutch’s boots too, to keep him from stomping and hurting his leg. When he rose again, Hutch ducked his head as if to hide his face and muttered, “ _Danke_ ” before he went in, shedding his long coat as he did.

Starsky followed, dropping his jacket on top of Hutch’s on the chair, but when Hutch ignored Starsky's earlier offer and headed for the kitchen, Starsky took his arm and guided him to sit. “Uh-uh. I need to check that bandage,” he said, kneeling down to roll up Hutch’s trouser leg.

The skin beneath the fabric was warm, but not hot, and when Starsky pulled back the bandage he was pleased to see the wound was healing well.

“Fixing up fast. Lucky. Easy to get one like that infected.”

“Must be the iodine.” The gaze that met Starsky’s seemed to imply it was more than just that.

Starsky re-applied the medication, wincing when Hutch did out of sympathy, and wrapped Hutch’s leg once again. With a pat to his friend’s knee, he stood.

“When I was putting stuff away last night, I found some aspirin; do you want some?" Hutch nodded and Starsky grabbed the medication and tossed it to Hutch, who caught it one-handed before heading for the pantry. "Sorry I didn't think of it before. Hey, I also found a whole bunch of food in here. It’s where I got the stuff for the stew. There’s eggs in here—did you see any chickens anywhere?”

Hutch shook his head. “Probably traded with another local farmer for them. I only saw the horse and cow. With just the old man seeming to be the only one living here, milk is probably easy to trade for eggs or potatoes and the like.” He swallowed two tablets dry.

“Oh.” Starsky juggled two eggs in the air. “I’m used to the milkman bringing milk right to my door.”

“Sounds nice.”

Starsky neatly caught both eggs. “It is. How would you like your eggs, sir?”

“Is there bacon?” Hutch asked hopefully.

“Uhhh…I don’t know. Don’t eat it.” He pointed to his chest. “Jewish, remember?”

Hutch laughed. “I’ll look then.”

 

*~*~*

 

From the rafters of the pantry hung strings of onions and garlic and long loops of sausages, while on the shelves were more eggs in a basket, and some dried fruits and jarred tomatoes, along with tins of flour, sugar, baking powder, salt, yeast. Well-stocked for wartime, he thought, and with more rooting through the supplies found a small side of smoked bacon, and some smoked ham.

Bringing the bacon with him, he emerged to find Starsky industriously scrambling eggs in a bowl, a pan on the stove beginning to sizzle butter.

“It’s good to fry them in bacon grease,” Hutch said, setting the meat on the counter and looking for a knife to slice it.

“I wouldn’t know-oow,” singsonged Starsky, pouring his liquefied eggs. “If you want some like that, you’re welcome to it, but we’ve only got about a dozen left as it is.”

Hutch cut a few slices from the side of bacon, then re-wrapped it tightly in the brown paper it had come in. “We might be able to make some bread. Do you know how?”

“Nope.”

“Neither do I.”

“My ma’d say, I need a wife.”

Hutch chuckled. “Mine, too.” He thought of Liesel next door, how his mother encouraged him. Friedrich’s face floated in, taunting him with both his nearness and his loss, but then Starsky’s real and present face, complete with an oddly endearing expression, took up full residence in his view.

“Eggs are ready. You gonna cook that stuff or not?”

 

*~*~*

 

They ate companionably, the wood stove crackling now and then. The scent of the bacon had piqued Starsky’s curiosity, but he demurred the offer of a bite.

“Starsky—tell me about Thomas. Would you?”

Starsky drained his cup of milk. “Why do you want know about him?” Walls went up, sudden and fearful, and he didn't like it.

"I’m curious, I guess. You cared for him, very much, didn’t you?”

He stared, taken aback by the direct question. He shook his head, reminding himself where he was. Germany. German soldier. War being fought—somewhere out there.

"No, you didn't?" Hutch steadily held his gaze.

Starsky took a deep breath. "What if I tell you something that you don't want to hear? Being who you are and all. Where we are. Who I am."

"Try me. I might just surprise you."

"You could kill me."

"I doubt it." His tone sounded encouraging, and Starsky bit his lip.

Hutch spoke again. "Starsky—you have no real reason to share anything with me. You have every reason not to." He held out his hand, palm up.  "I'm supposed to be your enemy, but I want to be your friend. All I can tell you is that you can trust me. What you choose to tell me stays right here."

Somehow, he thought Hutch would say something like that. The blue eyes held no malice, no threat, and Starsky found himself willing to re-open that part of his heart that he'd locked away the day Tommy died.

He took Hutch's hand and shook it, then licked his lips and looked away. “I met Tommy when we were just sixteen years old. His pop was a mailman and had been transferred from a different district, and they moved near us. For some reason, we just clicked, from the first day. We did everything together. I was able to tell him just about anything and he'd listen. He'd let me talk all I needed and in the end, whatever the problem was, I had some sort of solution, just because he let me work it out with him. And that summer, when we were both seventeen, we camped out by the side of a lake. It was hot that night. I remember we took our clothes off and jumped in the water to cool off.  He came up out of the water, all wet, and the sunset behind him made his skin glow, you know?”

He looked back at Hutch, realizing he’d been staring off into space, probably saying too much. But Hutch’s eyes were soft, sympathetic. And so blue, like Tommy’s had been.

“He was lookin’ across the water and I was lookin’ at him. Then he kinda gasped, like he was gonna cry, and he looked over at me and said, ‘Isn’t it beautiful? Like God tipped his paint palette over and drenched the end of the day with color.’”

Starsky dropped his head, staring at the table.

"And?"  Hutch's whisper touched him. Could he really tell him all this? Why was he so willing to reveal his heart's secrets to this virtual stranger?

He felt open and raw. Vulnerable. Hutch's hand took his, covered it, sheltered it.

"Tell me."

It hurt to remember, and to share. “I reached out and took his hand, and he held mine, pulling me through the water to him, and then he kissed me, like it was nothing at all. And God help me, I kissed him back."

Hutch said nothing, but his hand trembled on Starsky's.

"That was the beginning."  He turned his hand over, and Hutch clasped it, squeezing.

"You loved him."

"I did." He'd half-expected Hutch to react the way most men did when presented with the idea of men together — with revulsion, or anger and hatred. But Hutch simply squeezed his hand again and Starsky felt emboldened. “That night we slept out under the stars, sharing a blanket, and we touched each other. Exploring. It felt so right and so wrong, and we both were shaking like it was freezing outside, not the middle of summer."

"Like you are now?"

Starsky nodded. Hutch was trembling, too, and he grasped Hutch's hand tighter, wishing they were closer to the stove's heat.

“But then—then I made him come and watching his face go soft in the moonlight, lookin' so beautiful and—and—perfect…well, that made me come, and it felt so damned good. So unbelievably good. We were like kings, the world was all ours, and we didn't remember that we were just kids. Real life hadn't quite had its way with us yet.”

Starsky yearned to be held, with strong, secure arms around him, holding back the memories and the loss from invading his heart again. He felt so far away from this place, talking about Tommy and their first night together, but he didn't ask for that comfort, afraid to break the spell.

“After that we were inseparable, really. But it was the Depression and we didn’t have much money. We heard through rumors and friends of friends that there was a photographer who liked to take pictures of naked young men, and paid well for it. Turned out it was true, and also turned out, if you posed together, like lovers, you got more because the guy could sell it for more.”

Starsky let go of Hutch's hand then, feeling awkward and a little scared at how easily he'd shared that revelation. He took their mugs to the sink, and stood staring at nothing for a moment, gathering his thoughts. Then he turned his head slightly and spoke over his shoulder. “We did some things we probably should have been ashamed of. But we weren’t. We loved each other and we felt safe in that studio. And then Tommy got sick. And that's all there was.”

Without looking back at Hutch, he walked to the bedroom, wishing it had a door to close behind him.

 

*~*~*

 

Hutch sat at the table for a long while, giving Starsky some space. He couldn’t quite fathom the feelings Starsky had shared with him—the idea of someone loving him back felt alien and mysterious. He’d never known such love, beyond his parents. No one had ever wanted him that way, offering a love he could fully return.

His heart ached for the knowledge, cried for it. An unbearable sadness swept over him, that he was missing something in his life, something so basic and necessary that it caused a physical pain by not being there.

He found the photo of Starsky and Thomas, looking at it closely. They were so young, but so immediate, and so real.

Wetness surprised him; salt tasted on his lips. He brushed it away. Envy or empathy? He wasn't sure.

He took the photograph with him as he limped to the bedroom. Starsky stood at the window, one hand braced against the frame and the other shoved in his pocket. His expression held a frown but not from anger. More from the pain of memory, Hutch guessed. _And I caused it this time._

He handed the picture to Starsky, who simply gazed at it, held between Hutch’s fingers, before he pulled his hand from his pocket to take it with a tremulous sigh.

Hutch laid a gentle hand on Starsky’s shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “Thomas sounds like he was a really good man.” He slid his hand carefully down Starsky’s arm, squeezed it, and left him to his thoughts.

He washed up the dishes, added wood to the fire, and had found a couple of books in a drawer before Starsky came back out, walking slowly, head bowed.

Hutch had seated himself on the little sofa with one of the books, his hurt leg resting on a small footstool, and from this vantage point watched Starsky roam restlessly through the little house, note the dishes were clean, then wander back to the little sitting room.

With a quiet sigh, Starsky dropped into one of the chairs. “Whatcha got there?”

Hutch waggled the book. “I’m not sure yet. I was just going to find out.” He flipped through the pages. “It’s poetry.”

“Yeah? Huh. Can you read it?”

“Of course I can read it.” Hutch pretended to be offended, drawing a small smile from the American. “But you won’t understand it.”

“Try me.”

Hutch cleared his throat, turning pages until he settled on one he thought looked appropriate.

 _"Ich denke dein,  
            wenn mir der Sonne schimmer    _

_Vom Meere strahlt;_

 _Ich denke dein,  
            wenn sich des Mondes Flimmer  _

 _In Quellen malt."_

 

The blank, lost look on Starsky's face that made him look so much like a small schoolboy befuddled by his lessons nearly made Hutch laugh out loud, but he managed to hold it to a slightly superior grin. "Don't worry. I'll translate. It's rather melancholy—though it might match your mood right now, I think." Starsky's head dropped again. "It matches mine, too," he added softly, as a reassurance.

 

 _I think of you,_

 _when I see the sun's shimmer_

 _Gleaming from the sea._

 _I think of you,_

 _when the moon's glimmer_

 _Is reflected in the springs._

 

Hutch knew the moment it dawned on Starsky that this poem helped describe the night he'd had with Thomas, that first time. His face softened, his hands clasped together, and he looked up at Hutch with such pain in his gaze that it was all Hutch could do to not drop the book and take the man in his arms, to hold him and rock the hurt away.

"Shall I continue?" he asked, and Starsky nodded. "In English, please."

 

     _I see you,_

 _when on the distant road_

 _The dust rises,_

 _In deep night,_

 _when on the narrow bridge_

 _The traveler trembles._

 _I hear you,_

 _when with a dull roar_

 _The wave surges._

 _In the quiet grove I often go to listen_

 _When all is silent._

 _I am with you,_

 _however far away you may be,_

 _You are next to me!_

 _The sun is setting,_

 _soon the stars will shine upon me._

 _If only you were here!_

 

 

Starsky's eyes were wet when he looked up this time, and though no tears spilled over, Hutch was reminded of his own simple weakness earlier.

"Come here," he said, gesturing, offering the circle of his arm, and Starsky moved to sit beside him without hesitation. Hutch put his arm around Starsky's shoulders and Starsky leaned against him, head bowed, one hand covering his eyes.

"I envy you, you know," Hutch whispered, tightening his hold. "You were able to tell Thomas how you felt, and he returned it. I've never been so fortunate."

"No girl back home?" Starksy's voice was muffled beneath his hand.

"No. Not that I ever wanted, anyway." He thought of Liesel, of her soft body, of tentative, testing kisses that did nothing for him but had set her eyes alight. Guilt pierced him. One more person's pain he was responsible for.

Starsky felt warm and comfortable against him. Hutch took a deep breath, drew in his intoxicating scent. This man—this stranger, this American Jew he was supposed to hate—did far more for his peace of mind than any woman did or could.

"Starsky?"

"Yeah?"

"There's never been a girl I wanted. Ever."

Starsky's hand dropped and he turned to face him. Hutch felt his face grow hot and sweat prickle his skin.

The blue gaze pierced him. Pinned by it, searched thoroughly with it. And then it softened. "I thought, maybe," Starsky said, nodding slowly.

"You are not shocked?"

A lazy grin. "Nah. How could I be?"

Starsky turned his body, pulled up one knee to sit sideways, and rested one arm along the back of the sofa. His other hand rested on Hutch's arm. "Tell me more about Friedrich."

 

*~*~*

 

 

When Starsky's stomach rumbled loudly enough for both of them to hear, Hutch grabbed for Starsky's wristwatch to see the time. They had spent hours simply talking, Hutch sharing his pain over losing Friedrich, the frustration of not being able to tell him how he'd felt about him. Starsky listened well, touching him now and then, keeping him grounded, and when Starsky spoke of his own losses, Hutch returned the touches, stroking the back of his hand or squeezing his shoulder.

His heart felt full; so much respect and affection being fed to him by this man, and it surprised Hutch a little at how easily he was able to return it. Their lives were so different, and yet, they were not so different.

Standing and stretching, Hutch went to the window. "Snowing again. It's getting dark."

Starsky stood and stretched as well, and Hutch covertly watched the beautiful body move beneath Starsky's clothes. "Guess we should milk the cow again?"

"I'll go," Hutch said quickly. "The path is still clear and I can walk. Thank you, by the way," he added. "My leg feels much better and I don't seem to be having any real problems."

"Sure." Starsky shrugged. "Just iodine and aspirin."

"It was more than that." Hutch gave him what he hoped was a significant look and it seemed Starsky understood by the quick grin and duck of his head.

"I'll see what I can scrounge up for dinner."

"Great. Uh…put some more wood on the fire, too?"

Starsky nodded, already reaching for the stove door. "Ready to warm you up when you come back in." His smile was wide and suggestive, and Hutch's body tingled from it.

Outside was bitterly cold. Hutch ignored the farmer's body—it was becoming part of the landscape now—and limped along the walled path to the barn, marveling at how high the snowy walls were. The animal warmth of the barn welcomed him.

The window on the far end had been protected from most of the snowdrifts by the roof's eave, and Hutch attempted to open it. The latch was cold and stiff but he kept working at it. It finally pushed open and Hutch stuck his head out to see if he could see Starsky's plane.

The snow had accumulated up to its underbelly; there was no way it could fly out without the snow being cleared away from a good stretch of flat land, and the blizzard had erased any possibility of that today. Starsky was well and trapped here—and Hutch wasn't upset by that at all, for he was trapped here, too. His shot-up truck stood just as buried in the snow.

They were either going to become very close friends, or rabid enemies. The former seemed more likely, after their long talk this afternoon.

He thought of the stories Starsky had told him, about his family, his heritage. Family that was still here in Europe, trapped by the Nazi movement, their safety unknown.

He thought of his own family. His father, long dead, his loss precipitating their  move back to his mother's native Germany; his mother, so proud of his rank in the army; his sister, in love with the romance of war and no clue of the horrors their own people were perpetrating. He hated the war and the cause so much—it felt so very wrong, so horrific, that it was hard to fathom how his family could think so differently. Or maybe they didn't and he just didn't realize. Talking…there was something his family had never been good at.

He sighed, thinking of Liesel. He knew he must be frank with her, that he simply didn't want her, so she could look elsewhere. His mother would be disappointed, and Liesel likely heartbroken. Perhaps, though, she'd already found another; he'd not had a letter in a long time. But who could she find, right now? All the healthy young men were at war. Then again, it might just be the mail being hard to deliver in winter, and he'd return to his headquarters and find several love letters from her.

He sighed. Why was he thinking of her so much anyway, when Friedrich had captured his imagination and now Starsky, his heart?

 _Has he?_

Hutch felt startled by the thought. He hardly knew the man. Affection, growing respect, but did he truly feel loyalty? Love?

 _Lust?_

He closed the window and slid his back down the wall to the floor, taking deep breaths. Despite the chill he'd let in, his cock grew hot and stiff within his trousers at the idea of sex with Starsky. "Nooo," he moaned, sliding his hand down the front of his trousers, attempting to soothe. Guilt was his ever-faithful friend—Liesel, Friedrich, the men he left dead on the field. Guilt over being first English in a German uniform, and then a terrible German—falling for an American, an American Jew!

He was truly no country's son. He was alone. Except maybe for Starsky.

Maybe.

Oh, Starsky's eyes. His hands, the way he walked, and talked. How he comforted him while sleeping, tended his leg, fed him. Listened.

Starsky. David Starsky.

With a furtive glance to the door, tightly shut against the wind, he unbuttoned his trousers and pulled out his insistent cock, roughly rubbing until he reached an unsatisfying release, spattering his seed onto the hay-strewn floor. The pleasure was sharp and short, more pain than joy, and when he was done he caught his breath and stared at Bessie, who regarded him with calm brown eyes and didn't question his loyalties at all.

 

*~*~*

 

Frying potatoes and sausages filled his nose as he came in, and in his sight was a happy Starsky, a dishtowel wrapped around his waist, industriously chopping up a squash as he danced in place to whatever song he was humming while he worked. The small table was set with two plates and utensils, mugs of milk already in place, a plate of sliced bread, and a mysterious bottle set right in the center.

Hutch brought the milk pail to the workspace and fought back the nascent urge to kiss Starsky's neck, as if he were Hutch's wife. Female, Starsky was decidedly not, and a caress like that would probably earn Hutch a quick and hard visit to the floor for being so forward so soon.

"Smells wonderful," he complimented, pouring the milk from the pail into the jug. "Are you sure the sausages don't have pork in them?"

Starsky gave him a sideways grin, his blue eyes slitted with amusement. "Dunno. I'm hoping it's just beef or venison or something. If I can't tell or don’t know, then I figure it's good between God and me. I gotta eat."

Hutch nodded and moved to the table. "What's this?"

Starsky turned to see the bottle in Hutch's hand. "Pop the top."

Hutch did and tentatively sniffed it. "Whiskey?" he asked, surprised.

"Found it in one of those high cupboards over there." He tilted his head. "There's a few more. No labels, so I had to sniff. Food's ready. Wash up."

"Yes, Mom." They both grinned at each other and Hutch moved to the washbasin.

"How's Bessie?"

"Mooing right along. Horse is restless; I think he wants some exercise. Have you ever ridden a horse?"

"Me?" Starsky's eyes grew wide and round as he sat at the table. "Hell, no. Big animals and me are not copacetic. We have cops on horses back home and I just stay clear. I'm always sure they're going to run me down in the street, you know?"

"Ah, Starsky! Horses are beautiful. Even when they're broken to ride, there's still this element of wildness to them. Strong and powerful and can carry you away from…well, carry you away." Hutch wiped his mouth after draining his milk glass, then began cutting up the sausages.

Starsky seemed amused as he poured him some more milk and pushed the plate of bread towards him. "Eat up. You're too skinny."

Hutch laughed with his mouth full. Once he'd swallowed, he said, "The sausage doesn't seem to have pork in it, so you're safe."

"Good to know. Thanks." He smiled and then seemed suddenly shy, ducking his head toward his plate.

They ate for several minutes, not really talking, but comfortable together. As Hutch stood to clear his plate, the house suddenly shuddered.

Starsky went to the window. "Storm again. Where's the shovel?"

"I put it in the porch shed. Damn. I was hoping we could do something with our dead farmer friend out there."

Starsky rubbed his neck. "Yeah, I know. Makes me a little uncomfortable, him lying out there like that. But it's not like we can bury him, not with all this snow, and the ground's so frozen.

Hutch nodded. "This is really strange weather. I mean, we get snowfall, but not like this. I expect we'll see rain soon, though."

"Think there's someone we should notify about him?"

Hutch shrugged and shook his head. "Don't know. His neighbors probably would. Maybe if the storm lets up I'll go see if I can find one. Except…I don’t know how I'd explain myself being here. Or you."

"Yeah. Let's wait and see when the weather changes. In the meantime," Starsky produced two small glasses from the cupboard and set them on the table, taking the bottle and opening it, "let's give the old man a toast."

Hutch felt himself warm at Starsky's words, and knew the whiskey would warm him even more. He accepted his glass from Starsky, and began, whiskey aloft, "To…wait, what do we call him?"

"Uh…" Starsky looked around the room, spied the small writing desk and pulled the drawer open. Setting his glass on the desk, he used both hands to sort through the objects inside.

Hutch came up close behind him, leaning over his shoulder. "There—that looks like a letter," he said, pointing.

Starsky took the envelope and read, "Gee-orge—hey, his name's missing a letter 'e.' George Koch."

Hutch snatched the envelope from him. "Give me that. It's Georg. _Gay-org_. And his last name is pronounced like 'coash,' not 'cock!’"

Starsky gazed at him, wide blue eyes and innocence painting his face that of a schoolboy playing a trick on his teacher. "Is that what I said?"

Hutch narrowed his eyes at him, knowing he'd been had. He dropped the letter back into the desk drawer, snapped it shut and raised his glass again. Still, their easy banter pleased him, deep inside.

"To Georg. May he rest in peace, and with thanks from two grateful soldiers for the loan of his home in our hour of need and protection from the storm."

"To George—er, Georg." Starsky gulped back a mouthful before pounding his chest and speaking hoarsely. "Damn…that's…good!"

Hutch also took a large swallow but held it in his mouth for a moment, allowing some to trickle down the back of his throat. The alcohol was strong and it wasn't going to take much to loosen his limbs, make him forget the nagging healing pain of his leg, and probably drop a few of his inhibitions.

Starsky poured more into Hutch's glass and they sat together on the sofa, sipping.

"Don't feel chilly anymore," Hutch remarked, finally draining the glass.

"Did you feel cold? Why didn't you say something? I coulda stoked the fire higher."

"No, don't worry about it. The food helped and this—this is fine."

Starsky sat back and put one arm along the sofa back, stretched behind Hutch's shoulders. "You have the blondest hair I have ever seen on a man."

Hutch nearly dropped his empty glass when Starsky's fingers tugged on his hair. "R-really?" he stammered, blushing at being this undone by someone touching him so lightly.

"Yeah. It's…um…really soft and fine, too." Starsky's voice dropped, and he cleared his throat. Hutch thought he saw Starsky's hand shake as he emptied his own glass. _Looks like it's not just me the liquor is loosening up_ , Hutch thought. Somehow, that thought didn't bother him at all.

The wind rattled the window and they both jumped to their feet as if being caught guilty of something, startled out of the building moment.

"Just the wind," Hutch said, turning to Starsky,

"Yeah," Starsky said, put his hand behind Hutch's neck, and kissed him, just once, quickly.

Hutch stepped back, and blinked. His senses whirled about him, a maelstrom of scent and taste, remembering as a loss the fleeting pressure of Starsky's mouth on his.

Starsky's eyes were wide, the pupils so large they nearly made his dark blue into black. "Sorry."

Hutch took a deep breath, thought about what a bizarre, yet welcome, new development this experience was, tossed a _danke_ to God or the storm for their privacy, and stepped forward again. "Nothing to be sorry for."

Their next moves were mutual, hands petting shoulders and arms as their mouths sought each other.

 Starsky pressed closer, his tongue seeking entrance, and as Hutch opened his mouth Starsky's arms wrapped around him, pulling him close, their groins bouncing together, then grinding.

Hutch stopped trying to think and instead just _felt_ the overwhelming sensations. The slow, slick slide of Starsky's tongue against his, tasting of whiskey and sausage and milk, healthy male sweat, the mustiness of the barn clinging to Starsky's hair and clothes—in short, Hutch fell into ecstasy.

He sucked in air through his nose, reluctant to stop this kiss, this wonderful, sweet, strong and powerful kiss. His heart raced in his chest and his cock once more grew hard and long in his trousers.

When Starsky finally released him, Hutch stumbled forward. Starsky neatly caught him. "You all right, Blondie?" he asked in a mostly breathless whisper, looking disheveled and almost surprised. Hutch realized that Starsky was feeling just as disoriented and aroused as he did.

"Never better," he said, threading his fingers into the short, curly dark hair, pulling Starsky's head close again for another searing kiss.

Starsky shuddered against him, breaking the seal for a moment as he sucked in a gasping breath, then resealing. Tongues battled for supremacy as Hutch held firm to Starsky's head, dimly aware that Starsky had Hutch's butt in his hands, squeezing and pressing them even closer together.

They didn't even try to talk, lost they were in the taste and scent of each other, but at one moment when they broke for more air than their noses would allow, they moved as one to the bedroom, as easily as if they could read each others' thoughts.

 _Dreaming. I must be dreaming_ , thought Hutch. _But if I were dreaming, then this man would be Friedrich, wouldn't he?_

The man standing before him, running shaking hands up and down Hutch's shirted chest, was not Friedrich, decidedly not. He was David Starsky, American soldier.  Jew. Teachings warred with instinct, and instinct won. Hutch wanted to bed him now, right now, both of them naked and hard, until they each reached the pinnacle of joy and completion. He didn't want to think about “after” or “what if.” He wanted Starsky, badly.

He captured Starsky's hands, stilling them for a moment. Starsky looked up at him, eyes clearly pleading, and Hutch felt lost in the steaming blue gaze, sinking into it as if it were the most temperate of lakes, a soothing water that enveloped him in a gentle, buoyant caress.

He stroked Starsky's hands with his thumbs, and then moved one, pressing the man's fingertip against a button on his shirt in silent invitation for Starsky to do as he wished.

Trembling, sweetly hesitant, Starsky dropped his eyes, working with a nervous but determined air, his tongue tip peeking tantalizingly from the corner of his reddened mouth. He pulled Hutch's shirttails from his trousers, slipped the last button free, and then spread the fabric wide, exposing Hutch's chest.

Warm hands glided across his skin and Hutch closed his eyes at the thrilling sensation of Starsky's fingers stroking in delicate, random patterns. His nipples tightened to hardened points when brushed against. Hutch bit his lip, feeling a little dizzy and overheated.

Taking control again, he grasped Starsky's wrists and gently pushed him back, taking his own turn at buttons and shirttails, dropping kisses on Starsky's anxious lips as he worked.

His height forced him to stoop to undo the last slippery bit of brass. He felt Starsky's hands weaving through his hair, massaging, and he wished his leg would allow him to kneel on the floor easily for he was quite ready to open Starsky's fly and see what waited for him.

Starsky, seeming to understand the silent wish, stepped back, forcing Hutch to straighten, and then gently pushed Hutch down on the edge of the bed. He took two steps to the left and lit the lamp with a shaking hand, the glow from the flame throwing the planes of his face into shadow and mystery.

He returned, gently pushing Hutch's legs apart with his own to stand between them, his swollen groin at Hutch's eye level.

Hutch swallowed, his own cock throbbing. He patted it absentmindedly, so focused on Starsky's fly, trying to decide just what to do next.

"You want to touch yourself?" Starsky whispered. "Go ahead." Together they exposed themselves, and Hutch squeezed his eyes shut for a moment when his own grasp thrilled him too close to the edge. _Too soon, too soon._

His eyes opened to Starsky drawing out his member, erect and strong, beautifully painted in reds and golds by the lamplight.

Hutch leaned forward, not truly realizing he had until he felt gentle pressure to the back of his head, urging him forward until his lips met another man's penis for the first time.

Oh! He'd imagined doing this, having this done to him. Starsky's musky scent was intoxicating, and the skin of his cock so soft, like velvet over the steel rod within. He licked hesitantly, unsure of what would feel good, and glanced up at his partner.

The low light bronzed half of Starsky's hair, the curls red at their edges. His face was harder to read but his mouth was open in an O and his eyes were closed. Hutch sucked the tip lightly, and Starsky's head fell back, exposing his throat.

Hutch let go of his own urgent and needy cock, reaching instead to splay his fingers across Starsky's chest. His heartbeat pounded against Hutch's palm and he felt his own heart racing to match it. As he fed more of Starsky's cock into his mouth, his fingertips brushing the dog tags before wrapping themselves in the crisp, short hair covering his partner's torso; for a moment he felt inadequate, like a child, his own chest so smooth and hairless.

But Starsky looked down at him then, and in a far corner of Hutch's mind he pictured this tableau: A German soldier sitting on the edge of a bed, his shirt opened and his pants undone. An erect cock jutting up from his lap, with his mouth and one hand full of another man's dick and his other hand roaming the other man's chest. Both men only partially clothed, both panting and hard and sweating and groaning and moaning—

Starsky's cock in his mouth, bringing Hutch's full attention back to the immediacy of the moment. Two shallow thrusts followed, and then with a gasp and quiet cry, Starsky pulled free and masturbated, holding himself up with one hand on Hutch's shoulder.

Warm liquid spattered against Hutch's chest and cock. He opened his mouth and moved, catching a few drops on his tongue, amazed at its intensity, and when Starsky was finished, swaying on his feet, Hutch pulled him down to lie on the bed. The taste of Starsky's ejaculate inflamed him. He stood; ten firm strokes later his knees buckled and he fell onto a watching Starsky, whose arms wrapped around him immediately as Hutch shuddered through his final throes against Starsky's warm, firm body. " _Mein Gott_ ," he gasped.

The room spun back into place after a while, once his breathing had calmed and sense returned. Exposed skin now felt chilly after his exertions, and knowing he must be heavy, Hutch lifted himself with his arms, only to be recaptured by hands that locked around his hips and a lazy smile that warmed him.

"Where you goin'?"

"Nowhere. Thought I was getting too heavy."

"I liked it. But yeah, here…" Starsky guided Hutch over until he lay on his side, his feet and Starsky's tangled together, wrapped in trousers.

Laughing, they sat up and undressed each other completely, and curled warm and naked under the blankets, Hutch's head resting on Starsky's curly-haired chest.

"You taste differently than I do," Hutch said. "I've never done that before."

"What, tasted another man's stuff or his cock?"

"None of this—at all."

"Any girls?" Starsky sounded mildly surprised.

"Liesel. Just some kisses, nothing more. She wants from me something I can ever give—I fear she's expecting a marriage proposal when I come home. But I never promised her anything at all."

He could feel Starsky nod, his chin drifting across Hutch's forehead.

"So, you've tasted your own stuff?"

Hutch felt a silly grin cross his face. "Yes. I was curious."

"Huh. I've never done that."

Hutch rolled a little way back, indicating his own chest. "You're all over me."

Starsky slid down the bed, his tongue seeking the cooling and sticky liquid. Hutch closed his eyes, savoring Starsky's wet licks.

"Next time," Hutch panted, amazed to find himself growing aroused again, "don't take your cock away. I want it all."

"Next time, huh?" Starsky asked, moving up to seal his mouth to Hutch's. His tongue painted his flavor onto Hutch's, and Hutch moaned at the exquisiteness.

 

*~*~*

 

Starsky stretched slowly, languidly, buoyed in the warmth of the bed. Hutch slept on, one hand possessively resting on Starsky's hip as he lay facing him, their legs entwined.

He took the time to examine his new lover in the dim light of dawn. The crease between his brows had softened, a sign of less pain than Starsky had observed when he'd first watched the man sleep. And of course, being sexually satisfied always helped the relaxation factor.

He wished he had his camera to hand; the blondness against the pillow, the peace and tranquility of the bed and their warmth. The box was out on the table; would Hutch awaken?

He carefully disengaged his various limbs from Hutch's loving grasp, offering him his pillow in exchange for his body. Hutch accepted it for now, burying his nose into its warmth and muttering something in German that Starsky could barely hear, much less understand beyond the fact that it clearly wasn't English. “ _ickylibedeech_ ” or something like that. Bemused and amused by Hutch's childlike mutterings, he grabbed his shirt off the floor and donned it as a weak shield against the cold. In the front room, the stove gave little heat, but Starsky stirred the coals and fed it wood, setting it to blaze again.

His camera wound and ready, and another roll of film snagged from his bag, he crept back to the bedroom, his feet now aching with cold. Hutch was just as he had left him, deep in relaxed slumber.

The light wasn't that good; Starsky tried to be sure enough fell on Hutch to get a good shot. He clicked the shutter; it sounded loud in the quiet, but Hutch never stirred. Golden skin mostly wrapped in the white sheet, posed against a white pillow; the dark quilt not quite making it to his shoulders. He looked like an angel at rest.

Starsky chuckled to himself. Such poetic thoughts! But as he took more shots, moving around the bed to capture shadows and angles, he found that what he wanted was to crawl back into bed, take his place once again next to that beautiful body, and wake it up the way all men should be so privileged to be awakened.

He set the camera on the side table, coming back around to his own side of the small bed while shedding his shirt. Hutch's body gave off heat like the wood stove and Starsky tried hard not to wake him up with his icy feet.

He failed.

 _"Mein Gott, sie sind eiskalt!"_   
__

"What?" Starsky asked, trying not to laugh as Hutch squirmed to both get closer and away from him, depending on which body part was warmer. "English?"

"I said, they're like ice! Starsky!" He wriggled harder, but Starsky laughed at their similar thoughts and grappled with him, pressing the soles of his feet against Hutch's calves.

"You're warm; warm me up!"

"What happened; did I steal all the blankets or something?" Hutch gasped.

Starsky maneuvered in for a kiss. "No. I went and got the fire built back up and got my camera. And it snowed again."

"More snow?"

"More snow."

"Damn. Guess we're stuck here a while longer, huh?"

"Yep. Sounds terrible." Starsky took another kiss and Hutch eagerly pressed against him, his erection evident.

"Mmm…" Starsky hummed, reaching for Hutch's cock. "Didn't get enough last night, huh?"

 _"Nein."_

They grappled lovingly, rolling on the bed, catching the headboard to keep from falling off, blown around in a storm of sexual frenzy, forgetting all that lay outside their private little world.

Panting, Starsky flipped Hutch onto his back and leaned back on his heels, just looking his fill.

Tousled blond hair framed a flushed face, lips full and red, eyes shining and wide. The beautiful mouth hung open as Hutch caught his breath.

"Don't move." Starsky reached for his camera, aware of Hutch's eyes following his action. "Can I take your picture, like this? To remember?"

"To remember?" Hutch's face went blank for a moment before realization set in. He set his jaw and Starsky could see him tense. Hutch nodded. "Yes. Will you let me take some of you, too?"

"Yeah." Starsky leaned in to kiss Hutch back into relaxation, to put that gorgeous expression of lust back on his angel face rather than the acknowledgement that their time together would not last forever.

Satisfied that Hutch had relinquished his body to rising sexual need, Starsky stood again at the foot of the bed, giving soft instructions.

"Open your legs and look straight down at me. Good. Hold the headboard with one hand, and your cock with the other. Look at it, rub it a bit. Yeah, yeah. Oh, God, Hutch. You're so beautiful, making me so hard. Okay, now lie on your side. Be asleep. Oh, man. You are an angel."

At that, Hutch opened his eyes and quirked one eyebrow. "Angel? I'm no angel, Starsk."

"You look it right now, babe. Trust me." He stopped to wind the film and add a new roll. "You want to take some of me now?"

Hutch had Starsky give him another quick lesson on operating the camera, and took charge. "Lay on your stomach and look over the end of the bed. Yes. Maybe, your eyes, only halfway open? Ah, yes. Now, up on your knees, standing on your knees. Touch your chest, maybe?"

Starsky complied with every request, growing more aroused with every soft instruction. He resisted the urge to grasp his straining cock, at one point framing his groin with his hands splayed against his skin. Hutch took a few shots of this pose, closer and further and at angles, and Starsky felt free, erotic, and very much alive.

When Hutch finally set the camera aside he climbed up on the bed on his knees, mirroring Starsky's last pose. He took Starsky's face in his hands and looked deeply into his eyes, as if memorizing him from the inside out. Starsky felt it, knew that Hutch was thinking beyond _now_ and knew their time together would end.

Just not yet.

Hutch dipped his head to drag his lips softly across Starsky's, a benediction or blessing, a caress that said more than words were going to be able to. Tender and sweet, and Starsky returned the gentleness, taking Hutch's hands from his face and, lacing their fingers together, spread their arms widely to either side.

Their chests bumped and their cocks dueled, coming together over and over until Starsky felt he would overload at the too-light touches Hutch's hungry cock gave his.

"Wait," he said breathlessly, grinning at Hutch's body leaning, following his as he left the bed. "I want a picture of us together."

In the front room, he rifled through his leather bag until he found the cable. When he returned to the room, Hutch was much as he'd left him, on his knees, but one hand was lazily stroking his cock as Hutch watched himself, intent on the motion of his fingers against his skin.

Starsky moved the oil lamp to the floor and pulled the table near the center of the bedside. He set the camera upon it and looked through the viewfinder. Unhappy with the low angle, he left again to find something more to raise the camera up a few inches.

The poetry book, plus one other book that Starsky couldn't identify seemed to do the trick. As he arranged the camera angle to where he felt it would best capture the two of them on the bed, Hutch watched his progress from beneath lowered eyelids, still stroking, his face almost sad in contemplation.

Determined to bring Hutch back from whatever dark place he'd allowed himself to slip to, Starsky attached the cable and crawled back up on the bed, taking Hutch in his arms.

"Hey. Where you'd go? I wasn't gone that long, was I?"

Hutch shook his head, a tiny motion that rubbed his soft hair into Starsky's cheek. " _Nein_. But you will be."

"Hey. We're together right now, okay? You with me now, Hutch? C'mere." He turned Hutch's face to him, traced his lips with a fingertip and then dropped a light, tongue-tracing kiss there. Hutch moaned his hunger, surging against Starsky's body as Starsky clicked the button, hoping he'd captured them well enough.

Pushing Hutch gently back, he had Hutch take hold of Starsky's cock, and the both looked down at it. _Click._

Hutch ducked to lick the head. _Click_.

Starsky raised Hutch up, leaned in to lick at a tiny nipple. _Click._

Starsky laid Hutch down on the bed, left knee up. He climbed down to check the camera angle, adjusting its aim, then crawled back up, all the way on top of Hutch. Lowering himself slowly, he rubbed their cocks together, and when Hutch's mouth fell open, Starsky allowed his to as well, fumbling to push the button.

 _Click._

He crawled higher, his cock begging for entrance into that sweet mouth, to have those soft, reddened lips wrap around it and suck.

 _Click._

Hutch moaned around his mouthful, nearly causing Starsky to drop the cable. When Hutch started stroking his own cock, Starsky knew that they were reaching the peak of Hutch's patience. He backed down, feeling Hutch's cock bump against his ass, blindly seeking where it wanted to be.

And Starsky realized he wanted it to be there. Hutch, inside him, so deep he'd never forget….

"Butter," he muttered, sliding off the bed, leaving a spluttering Hutch.

"Hey…Starsk…where are you… Starsk?"

Somewhere in the back of Starsky's sex-hazed mind, he loved the thought that Hutch called him that—a shortened version of his name, familiar and loving.

The kitchen was still cold and the butter tub even colder. He brought the whole thing with him, warming it in his hands until, he hoped, he could get a good chunk off to warm even further.

Hutch, bless him, hadn't moved, still looking at the doorway with a slightly lost expression on his face.

"Butter, Hutch," Starsky said, grinning. "For lubrication. Guys aren't wet like girls are."

Hutch blushed and Starsky thought he'd never seen any man so beautiful as this one before him: mussed, red-cheeked, nude, hard, and needy.

He scooped a fingerful of butter, dropping the tub at the end of the bed and warming the pat between his hands. As it melted, he grasped Hutch's cock and slowly coated it with long, sweet strokes. Hutch's eyes fell closed and he lay back, moving his hips as if to thrust but trying hard to hold back.

"Oh, Starsk. Starsk. I'm not going to last much longer. Please."

Starsky reached behind himself, inserting a buttered finger into his rectum, stretching. It was going to hurt—that monster of a cock that Hutch carried around with him was going to guarantee that—but he also knew if he was too tight, Hutch would feel pain, and he didn't want Hutch to feel any more pain than he'd already had these past few days.

Two fingers, then, scissoring. Hutch had re-opened his eyes, watching him intently, but Starsky could sense his patience waning. The urge to complete the sex act was growing hotly in his own body, as well.

Satisfied he'd done enough, he returned to kissing Hutch, letting Hutch fumble his way with his fingers to the lubricated hole, then almost frantically guiding his cockhead to it.

Slippery pressure. Starsky sat up slightly, letting gravity lower him onto Hutch's cock.

"Oh." Hutch's voice was soft, reverent, and his blue eyes were wide and intently focused on Starsky. " _Mein Gott_." In stops and starts, with Starsky controlling the speed to make it as pleasant as possible for both of them, Hutch's cock finally slid home.

 _"_ _Oh mein Gott,_ Starsky _. Oh Gott. So eng, so heiss, so gut. Es ist wunderbar. Mein Gott._ Starsky _, beweg dich. Oh! Oh, oh, oh... ahhh... oh Gott,_ Starsky _. Ich liebe dich. Ich liebe dich...."_ __

Starsky couldn't tell what he'd said beyond, _My God_ , but he also couldn't focus on it. Hutch's long prick had bumped that special spot over and over, and Starsky's own incoherent moans competed with Hutch's babbling.

They found a rhythm. Up and down, slide and slam, Hutch rising up to meet every downward stroke Starsky made. Clearly nearing the pinnacle, Hutch took a bruising hold of Starsky's hips and pulled him down hard, holding him in place while he wildly thrust, lifting his pelvis over and over like a piston, slamming into Starsky's prostate until Starsky shouted an inarticulate wail as his cock gushed forth, spattering Hutch's chest and face.

Hutch arrested his own motion in a final thrust up, crying out. "Starsky… _mein Gott_ , Starsky…" Starsky felt the ripple and surge deep inside him, so deep that he faintly pictured Hutch's ejaculate coming out his own mouth.

Pulse after pulse, Hutch seemed to orgasm endlessly, but finally he collapsed back to the bed, pulling Starsky down into a crushing embrace.

For long minutes, Starsky was content to lie upon Hutch, feeling his heartbeat against his own chest, the sticky come sealing them together. He could feel more oozing down his thighs and marveled at how they'd both done this, left evidence of their lovemaking on their skin, inside their bodies, on film.

He fumbled for the cable, dropped in his frenzy, and clicked it one more time before falling into a sweet doze, dreaming of Hutch standing gloriously naked and uninhibited, proudly in the snow, smiling his widest smile.

 

*~*~*

 

Bliss.

Hutch hadn't felt his relaxed, this loved, this _perfect,_ ever before in his life.

He turned his head to gaze upon his lover, his generous, gorgeous lover, sprawled against him.

Sunlight glinted in the dark curls, and the lovely eyes were squeezed shut against the brightness. It made Hutch smile; such a little-boy look on a grown man, but the tenderness in his heart kept him from making too much fun about it.

He stretched languorously; his muscles both limp and rejuvenated from lovemaking earlier that morning.

Morning!

He sat up abruptly, thinking of poor Bessie. He lifted Starsky's wrist to peer at the time on his watch. Half past ten!

He scrambled for clothes, trying not to waken Starsky. Starsky seemed to take no notice, reaching for Hutch's side of the bed and accepting the pillow to hug to his nude body, snuffling once before dropping back into full slumber.

Hutch moved silently to the front room, the tiny house seeming large in the utter quiet. Beyond the window the sky shone bright blue and the snow glistened; soft and fluffy, it had tried to fill in their path to the barn but had not fully succeeded. He pulled on his coat, rummaged in Starsky's bag and found gloves, and grabbed the milk pail.

The icy air took his breath away; the view kept it away. Everywhere he looked, every object and field was covered in white, sparkling in the sunlight like a fairy-tale scene come to life.

 _And my Prince Charming is sleeping inside_ , he thought, grinning to himself. Swinging the pail and taking care not to reinjure his leg, itself a bit stiff and sore from the night's activities, he began pushing through the snowy path to where Bessie and the horse were waiting.

Inside the barn it was warmer; Bessie lowed when she saw him, her udder swollen.

"I’m so sorry, girl," he murmured, patting her side. "Let me get both of you some hay, eh?" He fed and watered them quickly and then settled on the milking stool, relieving Bessie of her liquid burden.

The milk smelled warm and homey, and his mind drifted to fantasy. He wished he could live this life, he and Starsky together—making a home, taking care of each other, no others in the world to disturb them.

Just as he was stripping the last of Bessie's cream, he heard a rumble. A familiar rumble.

Jumping to dash to the far window, he could see through the grimy glass a dark object against the snow— a tank, crawling across the white expanse with fair ease, it seemed.

He panicked. Starsky's plane! He couldn’t tell whose tank it was yet—German or Allied—but either way, they would see Starsky's plane and his truck and investigate.

He considered his options and decided to get back in the house. Starsky needed to know.

He grabbed the milk and hurried as best he could through the snow, ducking into the house just as he heard the tank pulling up behind the barn, near the plane.

Starsky met him in the front room, fastening his pants. "Who is it?"

Hutch shook his head, gasping. "I don't know. I couldn't see it in time. If it's one of mine, they'll see my truck too, and wonder about it. If it's yours—"

"They'll want to know where I am."

Together they moved to the window, flattening themselves against the wall on either side. With two fingers, Starsky carefully pulled the curtain back, peeking.

"Mine," he said. "Quick—into the pantry. They don't need to know you're here at all."

"But my truck—"

"Don’t worry. It can just be abandoned, shot up as you say it is. Go!"

Hutch squeezed Starsky's hand first, needing that connection. "Be careful."

Starsky nodded, waving him away.

Hutch ducked into the pantry, closing the door just as fists pounded on the front door. He pressed close to the wood, listening.

 

*~*~*

 

"Hey, wow! Hi!" Starsky feigned surprise. "Come on in."

"I'm Sergeant Flanders. You are American—does this plane belong to you?"

"Yes. I'm Lieutenant David Starsky, Army Air. My plane had engine trouble and I landed here just before the storm hit. Been stuck here ever since. Do you want my Army ID?"

Flanders shook his head. "I see your dog tags, sir. We're doing a final sweep—pushed the Germans out of this area earlier this week, before the storm. Who lives here?"

Starsky pointed back out the door to the wrapped figure on the porch. "I think he did. He was dead when I got here."

"Dead?"

"Yeah. Found him in the bedroom. Looked like he'd had a stroke or a heart attack or something," Starsky explained, remember how Hutch had told of his discovery. "Wrapped him up and brought him out here until I could bury him, but the storm's made that hard to do." Starsky shut the door.

"So, you're alone here, sir?" Flanders looked around, past Starsky toward the bedroom.

"Yep. Waiting out the snow and I still need to fix my plane."

"I see." He moved to the kitchen, noting the milk bucket. "You milked a cow?"

"Sure. The old man's not doing it and the cow needs it done, right? And I gotta eat."

Flanders nodded. "And what were you going to do with the cow when you fixed your plane?"

Starsky shrugged. "I was hoping I'd find a neighbor and notify them so they could figure out what to do with the animals. There's a horse, too. I found some information on him in his desk. His name's Georg Koch, and he seems to have lived alone. There are eggs in the kitchen, but no chickens, so I'm guessing he has neighbors he traded with who would know what to do."

"Very good, sir." Flanders took a brief stroll around the tiny house, sticking his head through the bedroom doorway but not venturing inside. "What about the truck? It has German markings on it."

Starsky shrugged. "I don't know about that. It was here when I got here but I never saw anyone. It doesn't look like it even runs, but it's hard to tell with all the snow."

"We'll check it over before we go. Is there anyone we can contact for you for assistance?"

Starsky nearly hesitated; he wanted to stay here with Hutch for as long as possible, but he knew that eventually they would both have to return to their respective duties. "Sure. That would be great." He rattled off his squadron identification, watching as Sergeant Flanders wrote the information down on a small pad pulled from his coat pocket. "It's engine trouble—haven't had a chance to sort it out yet. If they want to send another plane with tools, I'd be grateful, but I can't go anywhere until the snow clears."

"All right, sir." Flanders tucked the pad back into his pocket and shook Starsky's hand. "Allies have occupied the area for a full twenty square miles around, so you shouldn't have any trouble. But if you see any stray German soldiers, feel free to shoot 'em. Sir."

Starsky smiled weakly, thinking of the _shots_ he'd taken of one particular blond German already. "Right."

Flanders saluted him and then left without ceremony, shutting the door firmly behind him. Starsky released a huge breath in a whoosh. He waited until the tank took the sergeant away, traveling on beyond the house, before tapping on the pantry door.

"Hutch? Come on out."

He did, swinging some sausages from one hand.

"We've got until the snow clears, huh?" Starsky looked away, keenly aware of how short a time that would likely be. "Hey." Hutch put one hand on Starsky's shoulder and Starsky raised his head. "I’m sorry. Don't think about it yet. Let's have some breakfast, huh? I milked, you cook." He draped the string of sausage around Starsky's neck, adjusting it like a necktie while Starsky pretended faint offense. "Now, _you_ look good enough to eat."

 

*~*~*

 

After breakfast, Starsky set Hutch to cleaning the dishes while he made up the bed. Wondering at how Flanders had made no commentary on the cyclone of quilts, but grateful the man hadn't known the truth behind the tangled covers, he finished up by placing the pillows carefully at the head of the bed.

He returned to the front room to find Hutch sitting at the tiny writing desk, blank paper before him and a fountain pen held in his teeth.

He came up behind him, hands massaging. "Whatcha writin'?"

"Letters. My men…" He stopped, hitched in a breath. Starsky squeezed the stiffening shoulders.

"Now who's thinkin' about it?" he chided gently. "Friedrich?" He said the name softly, reverently, and he felt Hutch shudder beneath his hands. "Tell them. Tell them what he meant to you—as much as you can, anyway. Make them understand that he died well, and honorably." As he spoke, he knew what an enigma he was speaking through—his side had killed Friedrich, along with all the other men under Hutch's command, and yet here he was, speaking of them as noble in their deaths.

"That he did," Hutch agreed, setting the pen to the paper.

Starsky dropped a kiss to the top of the blond head. Returning to the bedroom, he collected his camera equipment and set about checking the lens and securing the used film in his bag.

He focused the camera on Hutch at the desk, the furrow between his brows deep once again as he scratched out words of praise and condolence. Hutch looked up briefly at the sound of the first shot being taken, but then returned to his task without a word.

Pulling on his coat, Starsky stepped outside and snapped a few pictures of the landscape. He avoided the ugly, dirty tracks left by the American tank and instead took aim at Hutch's truck, nose tipped down towards the flat front tire, snow filling the seats and blinding the headlights.

He took one shot each of the barn, the house, and his plane, before his film ran out. Cold and ready for something warm to drink, he stomped the snow from his boots on the porch and entered to find Hutch, head down on the desk, shoulders shaking.

"Hutch." He rubbed the man's back, and then tugged on his arm. "C'mere."

Hutch stood awkwardly, arms reaching for Starsky helplessly until Starsky pulled him close and held on tight.

"It's gonna be okay. You just let that out. It'll all be okay." Hutch gulped and shuddered against him, clinging like a child who had lost his best friend. _Not so far off from that_ , Starsky thought, squeezing the body in his arms.

The storm passed rather quickly and Hutch, seeming ashamed, turned away from Starsky and went to the bedroom. Starsky followed, watching from the doorway as Hutch rifled his uniform coat hanging in the closet for a handkerchief.

"You okay?"

Hutch blew his nose and nodded. "Yes. Thank you."

"For what?"

Hutch looked up at him, eyes red and tired. "For everything. For holding me. No one's held me like that since—my mother, when I was a child."

"Well, no one has to know that but you and me. And you needed it, didn't you?"

Hutch nodded.

"Well, then, I guess that's why I'm here. To be what you need. You know what I need?"

Hutch glanced at the bed, a wicked glint in one teary eye.

"Well, that too, you randy bastard. But first I'd like something hot to drink. I don't suppose _Gay-org_ had any chocolate stashed away?"

"Probably not—hard to get these days. But we can look."

Together they scoured the pantry. No chocolate, but Hutch did uncover a small tin of tea, and Starsky found some honey in a jar, far back on a shelf.

Tea brewed, they sat at the table, talking quietly.

"I won't be able to develop those pictures right away—can't do that with Army equipment. They'd run me right out of the service—probably court martial me and put me before a firing squad with a cigarette. And I don't smoke."

"When you get home, then?"

"Yeah. I just have to tell them that those were personal shots and show them my own camera and they'll leave 'em alone. I've done it before."

"What, taken nude photographs of your German male lovers in wartime?" Hutch's eyes were wide with feigned horror.

"No, you nut. Just my own photography on my own time." He dipped his fingers into the cooling tea and flicked the liquid at Hutch's face, snorting when Hutch ducked. "Anyway, I'll need to find a way to get them to you after the war."

"After the war. Starsk, do you think it'll ever end?"

"Yeah. It's gotta, don't it? Can't fight a war forever."

"But who will win?"

Starsky shrugged. "Who do you want to win?"

Hutch looked down, tracing the pattern of the wood on the old table with his finger. "Hitler wants to erase everything he feels is his version of sin. You, as a Jew. Us, as lovers of men. People with a different skin color. Starsky, this isn't a war I ever wanted to fight. But…I was compelled, required as a male German citizen to join the army, and I had my mother and sister to think of. Family honor, safety, security…all that was used against me. Because I speak English they put me into the officer ranks immediately. I never wanted to lead.

"I have seen more murder done in the name of Hitler and God…murders I helped perpetrate. I can't ever forget that. I led my men to their deaths, and I am ashamed of it, of all of it. Who do I want to win? You know the answer to that. If I could just be gone…Starsky, can you hide me on that plane?"

Starsky realized he was asking in all seriousness. "I could, but there's no way I could protect you, nowhere I could put you. I hate to say this because it's so damned backwards—but Hutch—you've got to finish those letters and do your service. It's the only way you'll get to leave, you know? Win or lose, if you're in a prison instead of free, I'll never see you again."

"You might never anyhow. I could be killed—you could be…" He stopped, choking on his words. His brain supplied the picture of Starsky's plane, shot by machine guns, spinning out of the sky to fall on the ground, shattered.

"Don't. Don't think that way, Hutch. We'll make a pact."

"A p-pact?"

"Yeah. We're gonna do everything we can to survive and get through, and when this war is over, we'll find each other again."

"How?"

"Can you go back to England?"

Hutch was quiet, biting his lip for a minute. "Yes. There is still some of my father's family there, but I haven't seen them since I was very small. So I could, but—"

"You do that. This is over, you go back to England, find your long-lost family, and you write me from there. I'll give you my parents' address in New York. You can be a buddy from the English army, they won't know the difference. It's not like your name is German sounding, really. If I'm not home yet, they'll forward it to me wherever I'm stationed."

Hutch tipped his head, considering. Encouraged, Starsky went on. "You write me and tell me where you are. I'll write back and, hey, pal—we'll get together. We'll find each other. You with me?"

Hutch smiled. "Yeah. I'm with you." Starsky grinned at Hutch's casual use of _yeah_ instead of _yes_.

"Okay. We've got a plan. And now I've got one, too."  He went to his knees on the floor, tugging at Hutch's legs to turn him sideways on the chair, reaching for his fly.  "Come here, big boy. Papa's hungry for ya."

 

*~*~*

 

 _How decadent to be lying in bed in the afternoon._ Hutch's thoughts meandered from his body's responses, to Starsky, to the animals in the barn, as his fingers idly combed through Starsky's curls. Starsky slept, his body heavy against Hutch's, his head cuddled close on Hutch's shoulder. What started at the kitchen table had ended on their bed, and afterwards they had clumsily crawled under the quilts to sleep off their post-coital haze.

Outside clouds had gathered yet again, but blown this time by wind significantly warmer than the previous two days. Rain would fall; he could smell it in the air. Rain meant snowmelt, and snowmelt meant another American plane would soon arrive to assist Starsky in getting his own plane off the ground again.

"You're thinking again." Starsky stretched under the protection of Hutch's arm. "Turn it off."

"It's going to rain."

"Yeah. But it'll still take at least a day or two before anything we gotta worry about happens. Come on." He pulled Hutch over onto his side, kissing him. "Let's make the most of those coupla days, huh?"

"I'm sure you're right."

"'Course I'm right."

"Arrogant American."

"Tell me somethin' I don't know."

 

*~*~*

 

The rain fell in torrents, sending rivers of water across the fields. The snow melted rapidly, leaving behind mud and muck and icy pockets.

Hutch chose a spot behind the barn, not far from the house, beneath a lone, bare tree. Hoping to avoid roots and to find the earth thawed enough, he began to dig Georg Koch's grave.

With every shovelful, he felt his own spirits sink deeper and deeper, as if he were digging a grave for his own soul.

He knew Starsky would grump at him if he saw his depression. Starsky seemed adept at hiding his feelings when it came to their impending separation. And while Hutch had said, _I love you_ several times in the course of their short love affair, Starsky had not returned the sentiment in so many words.

 _Of course he hadn't,_ Hutch thought _. It's too soon, and I'm a fool. Am I in love with him, or in love with what he does to me? In love with the notion that he could have the same feelings for me as another man as I did for Friedrich? And what of Friedrich—have I dishonored his memory so completely to turn to this American with such ease?_

"How's your leg? Want me to take a turn?" Starsky's voice startled him badly, and Hutch dropped a spade's worth of mud onto his boots.

"No! Aren't you milking the cow?" Hutch felt irritated at his own irritation, his own questioning of his feelings and having the object of those feelings standing right in front of him didn't help any.

"I was. I'm done."

"Just let me dig this, all right?" His voice sounded angrier than he actually felt, and he knew by the look on Starsky's face that he'd hurt Starsky with it.

Starsky held up his hands. "Fine. Geez. I'll be in the house."

Hutch jammed the shovel into the mud again, angry with himself for sending Starsky away like that. He looked back briefly. Starsky had taken the milk pail and was trudging to the house, his head down and his back stiff.

 _"_ _Es tut mir leid_ _,"_ Hutch whispered. "I’m sorry."

Thirty minutes later, he wearily climbed the step to the porch, slumping to the boards with a groan next to Georg's body. He addressed the still-frozen form. "You have a grave. And I may just throw myself into it."

Starsky appeared in the doorway, a towel again wrapped around his waist like an apron, drying his hands. "You done?"

Hutch looked up. Starsky seemed to not be holding a grudge, although he'd be justified in doing so, given the way Hutch had treated him. "Yes. Just need to put him there. It's not very deep. But we don't have a coffin or anything."

"Yeah. Another thing to let the neighbors know about. They may be able to bring him back up. Maybe."

"Yeah, maybe."

"Come on in first. I've got some stew."

"Starsky, I'm sorry."

Starsky offered his hand to pull Hutch up. "Don't worry about it. I understand."

"Do you?"

Starsky took him into his arms, right there on the porch for the whole world to see, should anyone stroll by. "Yes, I do. This whole relationship has happened so fast; you're still thinking of Friedrich and me of Tommy, and we're about to be forced to go our separate ways. You're on edge, so am I, and I forgive you." The kiss was sweet, and Starsky smelled of potatoes and beef.

"How do I say goodbye to you?" Hutch murmured, clinging.

"You don't. When the time comes, we'll say, _see ya_. Leaves it open-ended, you know?"

Hutch laughed and pulled back to gaze into the blue eyes. "How'd you get so wise?"

"My bubbe taught me everything she knew. Jewish grandmothers are like that."

Hutch could only grin and kiss him again. It felt so free, out here in the open, kissing and hugging. Touching. Loving.

 _Oh, if it could be real._

 

*~*~*

 

 

The next day, they looked to see if they could dig out Hutch's truck. The driver's seat was salvageable, but the spare tire had been damaged and could not replace the blown front tire. Hutch turned the engine. A few cranks and sputters, but she would not fire up.

"Probably for the best. I wouldn't be able to drive anywhere anyway. Allied forces would have me in minutes."

"You'll have to walk out. Leave the truck. It won't matter in the end."

They squelched through the mud to Starsky's plane, their boots leaving behind mucky, wet holes. Snow still glistened beneath the plane's belly, where the rain hadn't reached, but she looked like she was in one piece.

Hutch stood back and watched as Starsky examined every inch of her, from tail to wingtip to canopy to nose. Apparently satisfied, he gave her a good pat, climbed in briefly and came out with a toolbox, and raised her engine hood.

Hutch peered into the dark hollow that held the engine. "See anything?"

"Not yet. Got that flashlight?" Hutch turned it on and shone it in.

Starsky reached in and fiddled with something Hutch couldn't see, grunting lightly. "My guess is that one of the fuel lines came loose. Hand me that crescent wrench, would ya?" Hutch poked through the tools, finally putting one in Starsky's outstretched hand. Starsky pulled it into the darkness, and then presented it back to the German. "No, Hutch, the crescent wrench. That one there." He pointed patiently at an entirely different looking tool than Hutch had selected, and grimacing, Hutch exchanged them.

"Didn't you ever fix a car?"

"No. Never needed to."

"Huh. Seems like it'd be a good thing to know, yanno?"

"Well, not all of us are blessed with your brand of mechanical brawn. Some of us use our brains to resolve the problems at hand." He held his breath, hoping his joke came across as such.

Starsky came out of the plane's engine compartment so fast he banged his head. Rubbing, he glared at Hutch. "What did you say?"

Hutch grinned, feeling his mouth widen into a full smile and then laughed.

The corner of Starsky's mouth twitched even as he kept rubbing his head. "Brains. I'll show you who's the brains of this outfit."

"Might need this," Hutch said, bending down to pick up the wrench that had fallen in the wake of Starsky's hasty withdrawal. "See how I thought that out?"

"You'll pay for that, Hutchinson," Starsky mock-growled, inserting his upper body back inside the compartment. "You won't even see it comin'."

"I look forward to it," Hutch shot back, challenging.

"Ha! It _was_ the line. Wasn't screwed down tightly enough." A few more grunts and then Starsky slipped back out. "All right! Let's fire her up. Come on." He pushed Hutch ahead of him, urging him up into the cockpit. Seated in the pilot's chair, Hutch found himself faced with a dozen different gauges and a stick.

"Here's where you start her. Just like a car, really, but keep your foot down here. This is the throttle. When I tell you to, pull back on it so the engine will rev up. Got it?"

Hutch nodded, nervously repeating Starky's instructions. "Got it."

"Atta boy." Starsky climbed back to the ground and stood near the engine. "Fire her up!"

The plane's engine grumbled and rumbled as the prop whined into motion. "Pull back!" Starsky called, and Hutch slowly moved the stick. The engine caught, gurgled, and then rushed into a full roar, her voice smooth as old whisky.

He looked down at Starsky, who grinned widely at him and gave him a thumb's up. He shut the engine door and then disappeared under the plane. Hutch couldn’t see him and wasn't sure what to do, but then Starsky appeared at the cockpit, swinging the blocks that had been holding the wheels into the rear compartment. "Let's go!" he whooped, climbing into the back seat and sliding the door closed.

"Go?" Hutch called back, suddenly feeling terrified.

"Yep! I got a stick back here. I can see the gauges. Wasn't nothing wrong but a loose fuel line and I fixed it. She'll be great up there. We'll just fly around a bit—Allies are in charge now so we'll be safe. Don't touch that panel over there; it's the surveillance camera stuff. You just enjoy the flight, okay?"

Exhilaration filled him. Hutch had never flown before—always a train or a car—and this feeling of floating above the ground both frightened and buoyed him.

Starsky was a careful pilot, nothing fancy, just a smooth ride and slow banks to turn around the countryside. Below, Hutch could see their house and barn, his truck a tiny black spot against the snowy mud. He turned a few times to look at Starsky behind him. The man was in his element. Happy, flying, and content. When Hutch was with Starsky, he felt the same way. Like right now.

And he wanted to be able to put that same expression on Starsky's face when Starsky had both feet on the ground.

How could he ever let him go?

 

*~*~*

 

"Take me with you."

"Hutch."

"Please! Starsky, I've got nothing here. I hate this war, I hate everything my side in this fight stands for, and I—"

"You want to desert? Be a deserter? We've discussed this already, Hutch. What about your mom, your sister? Huh?"

"I—" Hutch knew he looked a fool with his mouth open. He hadn't thought of them, not really. They seemed so far away, inconsequential. Starsky stood right before him, tangible, real.

"And Friedrich? Hm? You got those letters to send. You owe him and your men that much, don't you?"

Starsky mentioning Friedrich hurt even more.

They were in the bedroom, Hutch watching Starsky repack his bag and make the bed.

"Yes, but…."

"But nothin', Hutch. Hey, listen. I want nothing more than to have you with me, believe me. Really." He placed Hutch's pillow neatly on the bed and turned to cup Hutch's cheek. "But how would I explain you, for one thing…and you've got responsibilities. So do I. My tour ain't up here. I got a unit to get back to. So do you. Don't you?"

Hutch hurt inside. Logically, he knew Starsky wasn't rejecting him, but it felt like it. He hated this war, hated what he was fighting for, and he wanted to be with Starsky.

But Starsky was right.

Hutch turned and slumped down onto the bed, his hands dangling between his knees. Starsky knelt before him and pressed his hands between his own, stroking them with his thumbs.

"This has been a strange week." Hutch's voice sounded far away from his own ears.

"Yeah. I never thought I'd make an emergency landing and find an enemy lover in a dead man's house." Starsky chuckled but Hutch couldn't quite muster up any sort of response, although he raised his head briefly to meet the dark blue gaze. "And I'm sure you never expected to lose a squad entirely and take up with an American. Right?"

"Jewish American." Now Hutch could feel the corners of his lips turn up. He felt a bit like a small child having been loaned a precious toy to play with, and now must give it back, even though it had been the most perfect and beautiful toy he'd ever had. "It's all on its head, the way my life has taken this turn."

"I know. Hey," Starsky stroked Hutch's cheekbone. "I might gotta go, but it doesn't mean I don't love ya."

Hutch raised his head at that statement. "Love?" he whispered.

"Yeah. Love," Starsky replied. "It's too soon and too quick and all this—" he gestured about the room, indicating their temporary home as a whole—"has been like a little eye in the storm for us, and I think we've gotten pretty close. Don't you?"

"Yes. But, Starsky—love? I-I don't want you to say it just because—"

"You've never had someone just love you, have you?" Hutch shook his head, and the ice that had been forming in his heart cracked a little. "Well, I have, and he died, but I know the feeling, and that feeling is important to me. And it's all I can do to keep it together right now. I gotta fly that plane out of here and leave you behind and damn, Hutch. It hurts. It hurts so bad."

Starsky's voice wavered and Hutch reached out to embrace him, pulling him close.

"Don't. I know. I know."

They held one another tightly for a long minute. Starsky pulled back first, kissing Hutch, and then standing and taking his bag to the front room.

Hutch stayed on the bed a moment longer, holding back emotions that were buffeting him like the stormy winds had when they secured the plane. That seemed like such a long time ago.

When he came out of the bedroom, Starsky was staring through tiny front window, holding back the old curtain. "I've already made radio contact and told them I fixed the plane. No one will come looking, so you should be good. I'll leave when it gets dark," he said, rolling his shoulders as if his shirt were too tight. "Help you with the cow first."

Hutch glanced at his watch. They had about four hours. "You hungry?"

Starsky shook his head. "Not really."

"I'll make you something to take."

"Sure. Thanks."

As Hutch stood at the table slicing meat for sandwiches, Starsky came up behind him and wrapped his arms around his chest. He could feel Starsky's forehead pressing against his back between his shoulder blades. He tipped his head back to caress the side of Starsky's head best he could, and felt the man shudder slightly.

Knowing what it cost Starsky to not let go of his emotions, to keep them reigned in like this, Hutch turned in his arms. As the American raised his eyes to meet Hutch's gaze, Hutch's fingers began to undo the buttons on Starsky's shirt. One at a time, slowly, revealing the enticing thatch of hair beneath the fabric. Starsky offered no resistance but did not attempt to reciprocate. As Hutch's fingers began to stroke a nipple, Starsky's eyes fell closed and he swayed on his feet.

Hutch pulled the shirt out from Starsky's trousers, pulled it from his shoulders and dropped it on the floor. Then he began to unbutton his own shirt and Starsky's face alternated between expressing sadness and need. _So bittersweet_ , he thought. _One last time together, and then who knows when we shall meet again?_

In tandem, they moved across the floor to the bedroom, undoing what Starsky had just done. Their lovemaking was tender and sad, reverent and holy and right.

When Hutch came, he cried out his love in German, and when Starsky slumped against him in satiation, he heard a gasped, "God, I love you," in return.

And when night fell, they stood near the plane, both reluctant to leave.

"You have the address for my aunt in England?" Starsky asked for the tenth time.

"Right here." Hutch patted his shirt pocket.

"You sure you can ride that horse?"

"It's been a while, but I can manage it."

"I'll send the photos—after the war."

Hutch nodded. "After."

"Hutch?"

"Yeah?"

"Be careful."

Hutch smiled. "You too. Don't go taking any chances up there."

"Won't."

"Starsky—" Hutch's words were cut off by Starsky's mouth, sealing over his in one last, desperate kiss.

Starsky pulled back, leaving Hutch a little dazed. "Remember, _I am with you,_

 _however far away you may be,_

 _You are next to me!_

 _The sun is setting,_

 _soon the stars will shine upon me,_ "Starsky quoted, kissing him one last time. "I'll see ya."

"Yeah. See you," Hutch whispered, with a reluctant, accepting nod. He stepped back from the plane, his hands curling into fists as he struggled to maintain composure.

Starsky climbed in the plane and fired her up. The engine caught immediately and the prop turned, picking up speed. Starsky set the plane in motion, taxiing to one end of the muddy field before turning the plane around for takeoff. Hutch felt his heart tear in two when the plane turned, for this was it. And as the plane drove past him at speed, he could see Starsky giving him a thumbs up, and when the plane took to the sky, it circled over him once, waggled her wings, and was gone.

Hutch stumbled to the porch and cried.

 

*~*~*

 

 

September, 1945

 

His aunt's house was quiet, set out in the country and blessedly free from the horrors of the London Blitz. Shame crept over him, knowing which country's men had wreaked that terrible damage.

Still, as long as he concentrated, it was easy enough to pass solely for a British man here. His English accent came rushing back the more time he spent among those who spoke it, and his aunt seemed to recognize is need to separate the German side of himself from the English.

He helped his aunt with the care of the house, working in the yard while she managed the housework. A nice house it was that sheltered him, but it was not home. He still felt loose, untethered, and more than a little lost.

The war had ended mere months after Starsky had left him at the farmhouse. The following morning, after a lonely, sleepless night spent soaking in every trace of scent in Starsky's pillow, Hutch had packed his uniform, worn Georg's clothes, and ridden the horse and led the cow until he found another small farmhouse, about three miles away. A mother and her two sons, twelve and thirteen, were tending to their home while their father was away in the war. Hutch explained who he was and where he'd been, showing his military ID and leaving out any mention of Starsky. The family never mentioned a plane and for that he was grateful; Starsky had been undetected coming and going, as far as Hutch could tell.

He left them the horse and cow, and Frau Oppermann promised she'd see to Georg's place and help settle his affairs.

He'd taken a good portion of Georg's stores for his own needs, but Frau Oppermann had pressed more upon him, feeding him lunch and offering him their home to stay overnight, but he declined. Now that Starsky was gone, he felt the need to move on, away from the site of their tryst and back to the army he'd promised Starsky he'd return to and take responsibility for his platoon.

That night he slept in a barn belonging to an older couple that had been anxious to help any way they could. The barn was snug and the animals reminded him of Starsky and milking, teaching Starsky how to bring the milk, the feel of his hands beneath Hutch's, working.

Remarkably, he did not encounter any Allied forces; presumably they'd simply moved on to the cities. After two days' riding, he found he'd crossed some invisible line and reached another German platoon. He identified himself, was welcomed and fed, and eventually evaluated by a doctor.

His leg, while healing very well, was deemed a worthy enough injury to keep him from the field. Instead, they sent him to Berlin to translate English into German, and when Berlin surrendered in May of 1945, he was fully relieved of duty and sent home within weeks.

And he had gone home—such as it was—to Alsfeld and his mother and sister. Liesel waited there for him, too, but after a week of her constant attentions, he took her for a walk beneath leafy green apple trees and broke her heart. The tears in her pretty eyes were nearly more than he could bear, but he thought of Starsky and knew where his heart truly lay.

"There is another?" she'd asked, a tremor in her voice, and he simply nodded. "I’m sorry," he said as she turned away, but at least he'd told her the truth. Mostly.

His mother had welcomed him with open arms while his sister Gretel awaited word from her young man who'd entered the service just prior to the war's end. Happily, Franz was allowed home a few weeks after Hutch arrived, and he found Franz reminding him of Friedrich in an earnest way.  A few days later, he walked his sister down the grassy lawn and delivered her into marriage mere days before Franz would have to return to his duties to help facilitate surrender agreements.

A week after that, he left for England. It had been difficult to come up with a plausible explanation for his mother why he wanted to go back, and finally simply said that he wanted to look up some of his father's family and get away from Germany for a while. Peace of mind, if he could find it. His mother was understandably hurt by what felt like a rejection of her homeland, but he promised her he'd return, eventually, unsure if he'd really keep that promise.

His aunt had been happy to provide a house for him. True to his word, he asked after other family members, visited a few, visited the graves of even more, and sent a letter to New York. Waiting for a return message from Starsky proved excruciating. There had been many nights where he would wake in the darkness, heart pounding, sure Starsky had been shot from the sky and lying dead on a battlefield somewhere, and Hutch would never know.

But late summer brought with it the answer to a great promise. The mail arrived as a small box, postmarked from New York. Hutch carried it into the countryside, not wanting his aunt to walk in and surprise him if he stayed in or near the house. He sat against a tree in a quiet, secluded glen and took the outer paper from the box. Inside, another package rested, tied twice with ribbon around a fabric wrapper. A letter sat on top, written in a scrawl.

 _"Dear Hutch,_

 _Who knew we were so close to the end when we met? Here's what I promised you, and remember what I said. Write me back so I know you got this._

 _Yours,_

 _Starsky_ "

Too brief, too short, but Hutch didn't care—he had his proof that Starsky had survived!

With trembling fingers, Hutch undid the ribbons and then the wrapper, followed by another wrapper, and a third.

Finally, revealed within the many protective layers, lay photographs. Hutch's memory took him back to that day as he examined each one, startled into remembering that he'd taken a couple of them himself within minutes of capturing the soldier.

His fingertip drew lines across one image of Starsky's body, recalling how Starsky had felt against his own body, how he smelled, tasted.

His heart twisted, an old and familiar pain. _Oh, Starsky._

Another photo was of himself, legs wide, holding his cock. He had looked straight into the camera with eyes only half-open. The shot was truly seductive, and Hutch wondered what Starsky had thought of it. Turning it over, he found the answer.

"My favorite," read a brief scribble, and Hutch had to chuckle. It was like Starsky had read his mind from a distance.

The last picture of the pile was one Hutch didn't remember being taken. It was one Starsky had taken using the cable; he remembered the camera being set up to the side of the bed, and the entire right side of his body had been captured in this image. Hutch could just see his left leg bent at the knee beyond Starsky's body, lying on top of Hutch's.

He observed sweat-matted hair on them both, and realized that this had been taken just after orgasm, before the collapse into sleep. Hutch's cock was still inside Starsky here in this photo.

He closed his eyes and recalled their early-morning joining, his cock rising.

Knowing he was alone, he unbuttoned his pants and pulled it out, rising to his knees. He carefully spread out the photos of a nude, aroused Starsky and of the both of them together, then began to jerk off, reaching under his shirt to pinch his nipples as he masturbated. The images enflamed him, and the recollection of taste and smell and touch drove the eroticism of being outdoors in daylight, cock exposed.

At the moment of ejaculation, he turned away from the pictures to save them, and bit his lip to keep from crying out as his seed pumped up and away, splattering in the dusty roots of the tree.

When he had finished, he used one of the fabric pieces to clean his hands, and carefully restored the photos to their box. He traipsed home, weak-kneed from his pleasure and determined in his purpose.

By the next day, a letter was posted to America.

 

*~*~*

 

October, 1945

 

Starsky waited impatiently, a warm wind blowing his curls around. He pulled his hat more firmly onto his head, feet dancing with anticipation.

Ellis Island was a place of history and hope, and today, with another new ship arriving from England, its air of importance was heightened even more. So many people had come to America in the last several months; the harbor was consistently full of ships coming and going.

He paced, twisting a newspaper in his hands and rapping it against his palm. He kept an anxious eye on the doorway that cleared passengers came from, battling a ridiculous fear that he wouldn't recognize the man when he came through. He had photographs, wonderful photographs, and the image of Hutch's face had been burned into his memory.

He turned to pace away one more time, staring at the clock on the wall and verifying on the arrivals sign for the thousandth time that Hutch's ship had indeed docked today.

Slapping the paper into his palm one more time, he turned to pace back—and there he was.

Tall, blond, nervously shifting his bag from hand to hand as he glanced around the room, looking.

Starsky swallowed hard, a lump in his throat nearly choking him, the sight of Hutch looking so damned beautiful.

And then Hutch turned his way. A slow smile spread across the gorgeous face, and the miles and months fell away.

Arms wide, Starsky walked to Hutch, who set his bag on the ground and returned the embrace. Starsky felt he never wanted to let go, or be let go.

"Welcome home," he whispered. And Hutch pulled back and smiled.

 

 **  
_Epilogue:_   
**

 

They lay tucked together amid rucked up blankets and leaking feather pillows, the sounds of the street outside filtering in through the thin walls.

"It's not much, but it's mine," Starsky had explained. "Needed to be able to bring you someplace we could feel relatively private, and that wouldn't happen under Ma's nose!"

A small apartment, but it boasted two bedrooms, necessary for appearance's sake. An easily concocted story of Hutch being an English soldier Starsky had befriended fed the lie and hid the truth, and for a while at least, they would feel secure.

"I've got a question for ya," Starsky said, nuzzling Hutch's sweat-soaked hair. "When you…come…you say something in German and I don't know what it is."

"Well, I'm not so sure I remember anything but how good it feels," Hutch answered, laughing a little. "What did it sound like?"

"Like something icky."

"Icky?"

"Yeah, like, _ickylickydicky_ …" Starsky pretended offense when Hutch guffawed. "Hey. It ain't _my_ language, Blintz."

"Blintz?" Hutch restrained himself from laughing again. "Isn't that a food?"

"Yeah, and I like eating ya, so shaddup. Blintzes are all golden and full of good stuff, and that's you, you see?"

Hutch nodded, pleased at Starsky's affectionate thinking.

"So, what's the icky word mean?"

"You can't guess?" Hutch asked, leaning up on one elbow to hover over Starsky's face.

"Believe me, I been trying, but I didn't know anyone here to ask and didn't want to sound stupid if it wasn't what I thought it was."

"And what did you think it was?"

"Something about liking licking my dick?"

Hutch laughed out loud, dropping down onto Starsky's body and holding him close. "Well…let's say that's a part of _why_ I say it. But that's not what it means."

"What does it mean, then?" Starsky's voice was a little muffled against Hutch's shoulder.

Hutch raised back up and looked deeply into Starsky's eyes. The blue depths took him in like fresh water, bathed him and soothed him and he knew he was home.

"I love you, Starsk. That's what it means. And after all this time apart, it's just as strong as ever. I missed you so much. Getting those pictures—they were like a sucker punch, knowing just how far away you were."

"But you're here now."

"Yeah. We both are."

"Hutch?"

"Yes, Starsk?"

"I love you too, you know, and flying away that night was the hardest thing I have ever done in my life."

"I know. I know."

Outside the wind picked up, blowing leaves against the window three stories up. Starsky thought of the snowstorm that brought them together, and shivered.

Hutch, probably thinking Starsky was cold, reached down to pull the blanket up over their shoulders before settling his head beside Starsky's, dropping off to sleep.

 _Home_ , Starsky thought. _We're home. And it's gonna be a rough road, hiding ourselves from everyone. But I think we can make it. I really think we will._

And he slept.

 

~end

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Author notes:
> 
>  
> 
> Poetry by J.W. Goethe: Nähe des Geliebten (Nearness of the Beloved One)
> 
>  
> 
> Many grateful thanks to Marion for her German translations and Keri for kicking my butt and buoying my spirits as necessary.


End file.
